These Wicked Precious Things
by ElocinMuse
Summary: An ongoing series of unrelated oneshots involving the relationship between Castiel and Meg. Some of them will be shippy, some not. All genres will be covered. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Flames

**Author's Note:** This will be a series of (usually) unrelated oneshots pertaining to the Cas/Meg relationship. Not every entry will be "shippy" of course, but feel free to read into them however you like. I was going to make these another "ABC's of" fic, but decided against as this will allow me more freedom. (Also note: I will of course continue to update the ABC's of Castiel and Jody regularly until we reach Z)

I'll take prompts and requests - I don't write smut, but I'll rate everything T just to be safe. And, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated!

All entries, as seen below, will list the title and what episode the tag belongs to, if any.

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><p><strong>FLAMES<strong>

_5x10 - Abandon all Hope_

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><p>The first time she looked at him, she hated him. And she could tell it was mutual.<p>

_Oh_, was it mutual.

It didn't even take him casting her into the ring of holy fire for her to notice. No, it was in his eyes and scribed over every inch of his face. Those blue eyes that pierced through her and ruined her in a glance. Blue eyes that willed her to dust, to nothingness. It wasn't possible for that haunting, largely otherworldly shade to belong to his vessel. It had to be his light, his Grace, shining through.

He wanted her dead. She wanted him humiliated. So, she taunted him; circling him slow, savoring every emotion to skip over his face while he was trapped and at her mercy.

And then she was stumbling over the flames and they were a breath apart. The tables were turned, coated arms encasing her like steel and drawing her deceptively close like a lover might, and she could taste the purity that surrounded his towering form like it was acid on her tongue. A forbidden elixir that unwittingly piqued every interest she possessed. A new feeling swept over her then, and the beast inside her smiled—because how delicious would it be to corrupt an _angel_? So she'd leaned in; enticing, waiting, maybe even hoping. _Go on, angel. Just a little stumble._

His eyes had softened at that—after he realized he couldn't smite her, of course. And it could have been her imagination, but he narrowed their proximity of his own accord, inching closer, eyes drinking her in.

Meg smiled.

And then everything about him had darkened—_I can do this_—and she was falling into the flames, her own screams filling the deserted room as he stepped over her and left. Watching his form disappear, she realized she'd only been tricked—_she_, a demon, by an _angel_. And of all the angels…

Crawling painfully from the fire licking at her stolen body, Meg vowed to rip out those pretty wings herself.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Every time you don't review, Meg forces Cas to watch Titanic.

_The director's cut._

Think of Cas.


	2. Wrath

**Author's Note:** Once again, there's no particular order to these oneshots and they can be read in any order.

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><p><strong>WRATH<strong>

_7x01 - Meet the New Boss_

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><p>When he mutates himself into that avenging deity, she runs.<p>

She runs because, suddenly, for the first time, he scares her. She knows it isn't him, not really, but what if it is? She can't bear the thought, for obvious reasons and some not, so she hides. Praying, for the first time, that the Winchesters can fix this one. Praying that they'll hurry the hell up and fix _him_, so she can have her innocent little cloudhopper back.

She wonders if it's in vain, if any escape attempt is futile. Because isn't he all powerful and omniscient now? _Well-intentioned jackass. Clarence, what the hell were you thinking? _She'd take Crowley over this horrifying outcome any day.

So, she squirrels herself away in a sea cave off the coast, sigils carved into the rocks, huddled in the dark like an animal. All the while experiencing the nightmares of trenchcoated silhouettes looming at the mouth of the cave and breathing lighting and wrath against her. She swears she can hear his voice, intoning her human name from the shadows. _Ameline Grace_—just to show that the sigils are as useless as a child's drawings. The slow, sinking feeling, like being trapped in quicksand, drowning in holy water, is her constant companion. That she cares at all is foreign to her, and frightening. She wants to go back to the blackness. To the simplicity of a knife in her hand and blood on her boots.

_Come on, you dumbasses. Fix him. _

_Please._

The word folds unbidden from a corner deep within her, so long hidden away.

Turns out, when angels fall, they fall hard and fast. And, apparently, she's not even worth a smiting to him.

So she sits in the cold, the darkness, for days—waiting for the death that seems like it will never come. She doesn't know whether to be glad or disappointed.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Yup. Still a review whore.


	3. Battle

**Author's note: **MUST READ! THIS HAS BEEN TRUNCATED FROM ITS ORIGINAL LENGTH.

So due to popular votes, the original version of this oneshot will be posted as a standalone. In this entry you will see only the cliffnotes - basically Meg's perspective. If you want the full version (also with more Dean, Megstiel, and Cas beating the holy hell out of Dick, just go to my author profile and find the full version under "Book of Job."

Thanks guys!

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><p><strong>BATTLE<strong>

_7x23 Speculation_

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><p>She doesn't know why she's followed him. She should be getting the hell out of here, putting this forsaken city in her rearview mirror, but instead she stays. Cutting leviathans and all manner of creatures as she goes, Meg runs for him. He's the only beacon she knows.<p>

...

A heavy sound fills the chorus of battle then, like the sails of a ship being unfurled, only greater. The _whump_ of air resonates across the darkened sky. Meg does a double take. Then a triple take.

"Mother of…"

Around the two battling forces, stark, stretching shadows veer around them, curving, reaching. Blotting out sparses of residual daylight. The silhouettes shimmer, light caught in their depths, as they gain corporeal form.

But nothing is so glorious, so magnificent, as the sight of those two massive black wings that finally appear and cut through the air like separate blades. Not shadows themselves, but the actual physical manifestations of the angelic appendages. Gleaming onyx feathers glisten in what little light remains, refracting it back. She's never seen anything like it, hardly able to believe she'd once thrilled at the idea of tearing out his wings herself.

They arch and stretch, rush forward, bracing like a shield against attack. Their movements flow, as he flows. As he summons the storm around them.

_Pretty as a comet. _Meg fights, the image of her angel's revealed glory burned into her memory and providing the touchstone she needs.

...

"We need to get the hell out of here!" Dean bellows, yanking on her arm.

But Meg is riveted to the scene unfolding, and will not budge.

"Stay and watch the fireworks, Deano," she breathes in reverence at what she's seeing. The terrible beauty pulls at her like a magnet and she doesn't think she could leave even if she desired to.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Again, for the full version, you must go here: h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 7 9 8 5 2 6 1 / 1 /

Or, if you're not as lazy, go to my profile and hunt for it under the title: "Book of Job."


	4. Aftermath

**Author's Note:** This is a companion piece to _Book of Job_. Find it on my author profile.

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><p><strong>AFTERMATH<strong>

_7x23 Speculation_

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><p>Castiel sinks to his knees, last remaining dredges of energy finally giving out. Around him, the annihilated corpses of the creatures he was responsible, including the beast masquerading as Roman. A crowning tidal wave of Grace had terminated every evil thing within a three block radius, leveling the lot. Burnt out husks serve the only reminder of the past many months.<p>

Every evil thing erased, but one.

Before he can fall completely, Meg is there catching him around the shoulders. Despite his near-death exhaustion, everything feels over-sensitized. One small hand delves into his dark hair, smoothing away the blood and grime. "You did it, dumbo," is her needling, if impressed, remark. She sounds relieved, and he feels oddly encouraged. Her fingers feel their way amid the plumes of black feathers at his back before they can wink out of existence. It's a rare gift and she can't help herself. "Quite the show."

"Yes," is all he can say. His head lolls forward until it's resting on her shoulder and she's rubbing slow circles over his back once the wings are gone.

Dean is heard approaching fast, and he skids to a stop beside them. "Cas," he says, gaze darting between them both. "Is he okay?" he asks Meg. He drops down, one solid hand coming up to grip his friend's shoulder. "Cas?"

"He'll recover," Meg presages. "Just a little pooped right now, aren't you, Clarence?"

"The idea of rest is... tempting," comes the angel's halting admittance.

"Take his other arm," Dean instructs the demon. Meg does so and, together, they hoist the angel to his feet. Sam is next to the scene, real concern and patches of relief coating every inch of his face. There are gashes and blood and ooze on his clothing and he doesn't know what to say. "We need to get the hell out of friggin' Dodge," Dean says for him, stepping over a Grace-fried corpse. "Before the real Feds show up." Sam nods hurriedly and gets out his phone.

Castiel sags in their arms.

Dean braces him up high. "Come on, Cas. We'll get you a burger and a warm bed in two shakes."

Meg tightens her grip on the arm of angel deadweight draped over her shoulders. "I'll even share one of those with you," she entices him with a salacious smirk.

Dean rolls his eyes, but thinks he might have seen the suggestion of a smile ghost across the angel's downturned face. The hunter can't help but chuckle at the guy's horrible taste in women.

"Sanctuary," Castiel murmurs, pleased. He leans into Meg, feeling her hand curl over his. He feels his best friend at his side. Sam is well and healthy and spinning BS to the authorities again.

It's over. Everything is how it's supposed to be, and it's finally over.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Except it's not over. Cuz there will always be more oneshots. Muwahahaha!

Reviews are candy for the children! Think of the children.


	5. Forbidden

**Author's Note:** My only excuse for the lack of updates is... new job. That is all.

Onward!

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><p><strong>FORBIDDEN<strong>

_6x10 - Caged Heat_

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><p>This is a monstrously bad idea. Although, it wasn't like there was much to be done about it now. Too little, too late; the temptation had been surrendered upon, and now everything was off its axis. Castiel was frankly surprised the universe hadn't caved in on itself. Because <em>this<em>…? was just colossally stupid. There was so much inherently _wrong_ with what had transpired, with what continued to be indulged, but the note of dread just wasn't enough to pierce that perpetual indifference that was so new and foreign to him.

He didn't care anymore. And that was probably a very bad thing.

Malevolent signs all around, then. And on the subject of baser desires…

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><p>It started out as it had begun outside that ring of fire: an intent to kill and destroy and burn out the stain of her evil to a crisp. Where it ended up was… a little different.<p>

His arrival heralded by the motel lights sputtering in an inefficient coping of his presence of power, there's a melodramatic clap of thunder outside the window and Meg looks up, smug and pleased and not at all surprised, to see the trenchcoated angel looming before her. He sure likes to make an entrance, doesn't he? She shakes her head in appreciation all the same. He looks primal and downright eatable. "Back for more, sugar?"

"No."

An arched eyebrow. _Oh?_ her expression challenges.

No preface; just a growl with a voice like sandpaper over cut glass. "I've come to destroy you."

There's no mistaking the flash of instinctual fear in her eyes, despite her obvious effort to mask it. It passes quickly. "Luck of the draw, huh?" Meg mutters at him acerbically. He can vaporize her at the speed of thought, but she'll give him a run for his money. She still wants a crack at those pretty little wings. To dig her fingers into feathers and _tear_. The darkness in her salivates at the thought, and hell, if he's going to smite her, she'll damn well be getting herself a goodbye kiss.

Castiel's brow quirks in puzzlement. "You're not afraid."

She can't tell if he's disappointed—_the ass_—or if he's just confused by her transparent lack of mewling terror.

"Well, I'm not going to beg, if that's what you want."

He frowns at her undertone, at the silent offer there, and responds quietly although not gently. "That isn't what I want."

They stand in collective silence for a long time until Meg is the one to break it. "Piss or get off the pot, angel. Because while I won't beg, I sure as hell won't just stand here, either." She can literally feel the invisible grip of his hand at her throat, despite that he hasn't moved a muscle. His jaw tightens at her words.

"Enough."

She blinks, looking hard at him. "What is it with you?" she asks finally, when staring a burning hole through him doesn't work.

"I—" Castiel breaks off, starting with such fire and strength, only to have those flames smothered before they can truly amass. "I don't know," he answers, with unexpected honesty, defeat weaved into every note. To Meg's increasing surprise and curiosity, she almost feels sorry for him.

_Poor little soldier._ "Why come to me, then?" She reads the look on his face as one of poor understanding and quickly talks over him. "You're obviously not here to kill me—maybe you were, but you aren't now. So _what_, then?"

His searching, _demanding_ eyes reveal _I don't know, I don't know, I don't know_, and his body hovers as though it isn't sure whether to step left or right. Poor, poor little soldier.

Meg grins, and it's hideous and beautiful. She knows why he's here, even if he doesn't. "Here's an idea," she starts, with an impish smile and an upturned lift of her eyes, taking a different route. This could be so good, if he'd just give in. Her shift in demeanor has him instantly on guard, wary of where this is going. "Why don't you hang up the weight of that trenchcoat for the night and let me take care of you?"

He looks like maybe he doesn't quite understand what she's saying, and maybe a little like he does. Neither realization makes him particularly happy. "What we had before was transient," Castiel retorts while averting his eyes, suddenly avoiding her gaze at all costs. "Meaningless."

But Meg smiles salaciously and cocks a hip. So he _did _feel that little spark in the ring of fire. "But that's my favorite kind, Clarence. Why not indulge? If the kettle's hot…"

"Demon," he says, but there's little venom to it now and more apathy than truth. It's a final, empty protest. Even the angel won't deny the inevitable anymore.

Meg repeats her proposition, eyeing him like a piece of fresh meat—probing and full of hunger. "Call it an experiment."

"That sounds…" What? Horrifying, revolting, blasphemous? _Ridiculous_? All options have crossed his face by now. He considers her behind the drowsy sweep of his eyelashes and surprises her. "…illuminating."

White teeth bare widely in a grin and Meg sidles up to him, fingers smoothing over his shoulders and dragging the trenchcoat down with them. "No more armor tonight, pretty boy."

His fingers are like steel grips on her sides, and the anger is back in his eyes. Castiel growls, "Stop your taunting."

His tie is wrapped around her tiny hand and she's tugging him forcefully down to her level. "Make me," Meg hisses against his lips.

This will be the most criminal of sins.

Their passion is carnal and punishing, as they both knew it would be. It's all teeth and anger and hate and _despair_ because they're both directionless these days. Neither of them have kings to serve anymore. Embraces are punctuated by the delicious ache of bruises. They mold and clash in all the wrong places, the best places.

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><p><em>Forbidden<em> isn't a strong enough word, he realizes.

She's curled up against him now, the porcelain flesh of her arm slung over his bare chest, fingers tracing invisible sigils on his throat that could probably damage him if written in blood. It's less domestic than simply her trying to make him as uncomfortable as possible. He is already compromised, so the thought of falling further is nothing more than a nagging voice in the back of his head now.

_Bad, bad things. Wrong. _

"So whaddaya say, Clarence?" Meg's voice is honey and vinegar in his ear. "White picket fence? Three kids and a poodle?"

Castiel stares up at the ceiling, responding with his usual unimpressed tone. "If we spawned a child, the result would be catastrophic."

There are dents and fissures in the sheetrock. They lie in the darkness of the room together, entwined, because all the lights have been blown out. There's glass on the floor, sharp and waiting. "I don't know," Meg croons, lashes fluttering coquettishly. "Little boy? Your killer looks, my eyes? Sounds dreamy."

There are claw marks running down his back. A bite mark on his shoulder.

"If you want me to leave, just say so."

Her resulting laughter burrows its way under his skin, making it crawl. "Don't be such a killjoy." She rolls on top of him, dark tresses of hair creating a curtain for their faces. Her nails dig impatiently into his arms. He's as good at this as she knew he would be. "Round two, cloudhopper? Your halo's not quite bent enough yet."

_So wrong._

He glares up at her, pouring as much hatred and disgust into the exchange as he physically can. His hands are strong and hot at her hips with the smoldering urge to snuff her out for good, but her wicked laughter resounds yet again when, instead, he's yanking her down and crashing his mouth to hers to start the fall all over again.

_That's my boy._

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><p>Sometime the following day, Dean pulls a face and asks, "Dude, is that a hickey?"<p>

"A what?"

"Never mind."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Reviews make me very happy.


	6. Wings

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, all! Please keep them coming, I am ever so needy.

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><p><strong>WINGS<strong>

_Season 8 Speculation_

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><p>Whatever it is—mojo, dwindling Grace, bad day on angel airwaves, Castiel was sore as hell. He'd been hurled into the side of a building by some Tulpa, which was no great catastrophe—until the building collapsed on top of him. Meg took notice of his hitching pace and hunched form all the way back to the motel.<p>

There's no telling when the Winchesters will be back, and seeing him like that is making _her_ cringe. Which is just rude, because it wasn't her fault the treetopper wasn't paying attention. Stupid angels—always thinking they're so untouchable. Meg tosses the duffel full of weapons onto one of the beds and beckons him over before he can slump into one of the dilapidated dining chairs.

He's already eyeing her warily, like she might pull a nasty trick. "Why?"

Meg rolls her eyes, marching over to him. "Turn around, you overgrown pigeon. Let me take a look at you."

Castiel tenses at the way her hands run up his back and across his shoulders, feeling for damage. She thinks that if he'd had no broken bones before, the absurdly overwrought way he's holding himself right now will do the trick. His back is ramrod straight, fingers curled into fists, and the muscles in his jaw clench tight as though he's enduring torture.

Meg knows the angel isn't used to being touched, but this is just ridiculous. Then again, maybe he actually _is_ badly hurt. Though, if that were the case, she'd feel it in the handsome framework beneath her hands and the stuffy celestial would have smote her on the spot without so much as a carpet stain.

"Anything?" Meg asks, pressing an experimental heel into the curve of his spine with her hand.

He responds with a stiff headshake.

He's too locked up for this little exam to work properly. Her fingers feel their way up to his neck, massaging the flesh there, and Castiel feels a tremor work its way through him. "Just relax your muscles," instructs the demon, with mushrooming impatience.

"How do you mean?"

A sigh. "Really, Clarence?" She considers him forbearingly and steps in front of him, gesturing to the bed. "Here. Sit down."

He stares at her. She stares back; lifts an eyebrow sharply.

"_Sit_."

He complies, hesitantly, gaze lifting to meet hers as she steps between his legs so that they're nearly face to face. Something twists in his gut and whether that's a good or bad thing, he has no idea. Though, he can probably guess.

"Lay your head down. On my shoulder."

Her voice is clipped, clinical. Again, he obeys, movements halting like he's not quite sure how to go about it. When Meg feels the weight of his forehead on the edge of her collarbone, she sets back to work. Her fingers knead and press at the muscles in his neck and shoulders, testing out durability (and _tolerability_, he's sure). The pressure brings discomfort—to be expected after becoming a Tulpa's plaything—but then again, it feels sort of nice, too.

"I think you're probably just tense. Gotta take better care of yourself, hot wings. Can angels even _get_ tense?"

Castiel wants to protest the ludicrousness of the idea, but the feel of deft fingers pressing into aching, tired muscles is too distracting. His eyelids flutter and his head drops further in languid inclination. _Do not let your guard down with her_,the voice in his head warns him, unheeded. Instead of the straightforward denial he'd been hoping for, all that comes out of him is a low hum of acknowledgment.

"What about your wings?"

"What about them?" he mumbles against her, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes. He assumes she means his actual, physical wings, which is an odd thing to ask after.

"Do they hurt, too? Feathers out of whack? Bones busted up?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No." He hasn't had much need to use them lately, though they could do with an airing out. Maybe it _is_ nothing more than tension that leaves him so out of sorts. Though, he does still have some splinters that will be unpleasant to extricate later.

Meg raises an eyebrow at him, the lids of her eyes dropping to half-mast. Beneath them, she regards him slyly. Salaciously. "Can I see them?"

He's instantly on guard, defenses slamming back into place. "What for?"

Castiel isn't sure if she's legitimately wanting to know something, or if she's just being sarcastic. Or manipulative. It's often hard to tell with her.

"Because." She taps a finger thoughtfully against the strong line of his jaw. "Maybe I want to rip them out?"

He has noticed her apparent obsession with them. It might amuse him if it weren't so puzzling. What does amuse him is her gumption, so brazen and proud. A cat taking on a city of hounds. Meg barely catches the spark of inherent smugness in his expression before it vanishes. "You'd never be able to."

A sharp eyebrow perks. "Oh?"

"You aren't as strong as me. Certainly not strong enough for that."

"That sounds like a challenge, Castiel."

Before she can complete the sentence, a gust of air sends the dark tresses of her hair whipping across her face. The sudden draft is accompanied by a heavy _whump _sound. Instantly, Meg is surrounded by massive shadows, and a shimmer of something that hovers between corporeal and unseen. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the large onyx plumes as they curve around her and she can't help but let out a soundless gasp, left suddenly breathless. All she can think is: _gimme_. She feels the sweep of a feather-light touch where his forehead had been and she can't for the life of her decode the look he's giving her. It seems like it might be dangerous—a warning, but there's something else there too. A glint that's less smug and more… curious. Testing the waters.

Just as she's reaching out to touch the smooth, tantalizing surface of one wing, like a moth drawn to new fires, they vanish with a self-conscious shuffle and are tucked safely back away.

The waters are apparently too hot for Ravenlocks. Well… that's just fine. Meg is patient.

Soon, her little angel porridge would be _just… right_.

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> The world is a better place when you review.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.


	7. Advocate

**Author's Note:** Round two for the night!

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><p><strong>ADVOCATE<strong>

_Season 8 Speculation_

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><p>That annoying buzz from his cell could only mean one person. Meg picked it up, gripping the phone with a little more force than necessary. "Angel answering service," she greeted, voice falsely pleasant.<p>

_"Where is he?"_

She glanced back at the bed and to the angel there, asleep on his chest. He was turned away from her, but she watched the steady rise and fall of his bare torso with appreciation. "He's here. Sleeping."

_"Angels don't sleep."_

Meg grinned wickedly into the phone. "He does when I'm done with him."

_"_Gross_, Meg. Just… keep those little gems of information to yourself from now on, would you? And wake him up. We need him."_

"So bossy, Deano. You should really be more appreciative of the angel in your pocket. No wonder he's always warming up my bed."

An additional sound of disgruntlement from the other line. What was it about torturing the surly hunter that was so much fun? _"I know, I know. We're just in a hurry and this is big. So… _please_, wake him up?"_

She could hear his teeth grind around the word and smirked in satisfaction. "One angel windup toy, coming your way." Meg hung up before receiving a response, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. She crawled over the mattress until she was draped over top of his body. "Wake up, Clarence," she murmured in his ear. He made a soft noise of refusal, ignoring her. She bit his shoulder, earning a grunt, and ruffled his hair. "_Up_. You're needed. Go forth and smite."

His voice was muffled by the pillow as he replied, "It's comfortable here. Think I'll stay."

Meg propped her chin up on the smooth plane of warm, sexy angel flesh. "Mm. Your choice, but it sounded pretty urgent."

"Dean?"

Meg snorted. "Do you _have_ any other friends?" She squeezed his shoulders and kissed the back of his neck.

She was then lifted off the bed as Castiel pushed himself up from the mattress, her with him, and she slid off and settled back into the pillows while he climbed over her. "Where is my shirt?"

"No idea. Guess you'll have to fight without it." Her eyes lit up. "Ooh. Now there's a mental picture." Meg growled playfully at him, crooking her finger to beckon him back to bed.

"You are insufferable," remarked Castiel wearily, but there was a note of genuine affection there.

Once he'd located all his clothes, she shot him a wink. "Come back to me, boy."

His sigh was resigned. "Always."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Every time you review, Misha cuddles a corgi puppy. Scientific fact.


	8. Blood

Author's Note: Thanks for the lovely little reviews, guys! Keep them coming! I graciously accept constructive criticism as well, so anything you've got for me, lay it on me.

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><p><strong>BLOOD<strong>

_Season 7 Speculation_

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><p>Contrary to popular belief, a demon's blood pumped cold as a glacier's kiss. A touch like frostbite, and a presence that gave subzero chills. Angels were very different. Their blood was light and flame. Hot to the senses, with authority like an inferno. So, why then, when he looked at her like that, did she feel so cold, and when they argued like this, did a fever steal over him? Licking at them both with tendrils of passion, even when hurling cutting words and driven to the point of madness with each other.<p>

He stepped forward with purpose, but was immediately met with a china doll-sized wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Meg demanded of him, fiery gaze all but burning him alive.

Castiel didn't have time for this, and made his point known. "Move aside."

"What, and let you fly headlong into some deranged kamikaze mission? Forget it. If anyone's going to snuff your lights out, it'll be _me_, featherbrain."

He actually looked like he was going to physically remove her. His blue eyes were warring between pain and anger, and right now she was at the brunt of it all for standing in his way. "Meg. I said _move_. _Aside_."

His voice was a growl, and that deep-rooted instinct that made her naturally fear him quailed under the intimidating tone, but she stood her ground. "If you're gonna smite me, _smite me_," she challenged him, with a jut of her narrow chin. "You're not doing this. I won't let you."

"Why? Because you need me as a weapon against Crowley?" he barked back. His words had teeth of their own.

"Well, _yeah_. There's that," Meg noted pithily.

Castiel sighed sharply, at wit's end with her already. "And? What else? What_ else_?" He could decipher tomes of ancient Enochian, and was fluent in just about every language known to man and beast, but reading her was an impossible feat. Really, it was like a fish attempting to learn poetry.

But suddenly she was very serious. What had once been arrogance and irritation swirling in her eyes was now murkier, almost vulnerable. "_And_, it would really _suck_ if you died again, asshole." Castiel blinked, all trace of resolve abandoning him in lieu of the quiet puzzlement that took its place. Taking advantage of his speechlessness, Meg barreled on. "I know it seems like the easy out. And maybe you want it all to go away, but there are people who need you." He made to protest, turmoil filling him, only to be cut short again. "I need you."

His expression worked itself into something between distaste and confusion. "That is ridiculous."

Meg closed in on him. "Is it? Because you have so many friends right now." Her finger poked him hard in the chest. The pressure would have been enough to seriously injure anyone else. "You and I are going to stick together. You hear me? Whether you _like_ it, or _not_. I'm your shiny new tumor, Clarence. So quit your bitching and get used to it."

Castiel looked like he was seriously reconsidering the not-smiting her portion of his interim decision. But, the dark wings of his brow drew together and she could tell he was mulling it all over carefully. Reluctantly.

Castiel sighed, resolve dissipating from his squared shoulders until he looked no more than a broken man instead of a fallen angel. "This won't end well," he grudgingly supplied, as a cutting reminder.

Her dark eyes bored into his, a sharp contrast to the vividness of his seawater gaze. "Everything ends in blood, Castiel. What's the difference if we have a little fun first?"

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Every time you review, Meg takes Castiel to Disneyland.

(Dude. Now I seriously need to write that as a crack entry. Someone stop me now.)


	9. Home

**Author's Note:** Just rifling through all my saved notes tonight. More to come! Please review! It gives me inspiration and feelings of approval. :P

* * *

><p><strong>HOME<strong>

_7x21 Speculation_

* * *

><p>"Glad that shitstorm's over," Meg snarled, kicking off her boots and lobbing them into a corner of the white-walled room. Prophets and archangels had never been on her good list, and frankly, neither were the Winchesters. Despite any tumultuous truce they'd somehow arrived at, she'd have liked nothing more than to be rid of them completely so that she could go on her merry damn way. She sighed, dragging her chair up and plopping her feet in the silent angel's lap on the bed. He looked more morose than usual, if the discouraged hunch of his shoulders was any indication. Meg wiggled her toes at him. "Don't suppose I could get a foot rub while you brood?"<p>

Castiel glanced at her, down to her feet, then back at the wall. Just when she thought her aching feet were to be neglected, his hands settled onto her ankles, thoughtfully. "I didn't mind the… storm."

Meg arched an eyebrow at him, nonplussed. Her little treetopper had nearly been smote six ways from Sunday. Not what she would call a good day. But then… she realized that he was probably feeling nostalgic towards the _elements_ of the little metaphorical downpour that had transpired. He missed those damn Winchesters.

Meg groaned, reclining back in her chair and shutting her eyes. "Don't be sadsack, Clarence." She nudged him with an impatient prod of her foot. "Idle hands are the devil's plaything."

His gaze drifted back to the pair of tiny feet in his lap, reminded of their presence and apparent need for attention. Meg smiled at the feel of the very angelic massage that started up at her insistence. The irony of her remark made him squirm a little, but he didn't say anything on the matter. They sat in relative silence while he mulled the current circumstances over in his thoughts.

"Don't suppose I could get those magic angel fingers elsewhere besides just my feet?" Meg posited hopefully, flashing him a dimpled grin.

"Should I assume that question is rhetorical?"

"Well, you don't have to," she simpered.

Meg waited awhile, tilting her head at the sullen angel and feeling her insides twist traitorously. He wasn't outwardly _depressed_, but he was definitely more despondent than usual. Especially since his little headtrip of _enlightenment_. And she did mean _trip_.

"You all right, feathers?"

He'd stilled in his ministrations over her feet, not aware of it until he looked up to see her staring at him. Castiel nodded.

Meg sighed, reclaiming her feet and leaning forward in her seat to level him with a look that clearly called _bullshit_. At this, he shook his head with uncertainty. "Why let me confide in you?"

She shrugged. "Why not? What else have I got to do around here?" The demon winked and flashed him a smirk. "You're my favorite patient, after all."

He smiled a little at that. "I don't know what you have as far as ulterior motives in this arrangement, but I am glad you're here."

Meg bristled at the backhanded compliment, but decided it was pretty impressive coming from an angel to a demon. "Yeah, well… I'm a giver."

Clearly, she wasn't going to let the issue drop. Castiel sighed. "I just want to go home," he murmured.

Of all the cheese, it had to be this. Because Meg felt a genuine pang of sympathy shoot through her and it was her turn to squirm. Still, his sad eyes drew her in like a damn devil's trap. "Yeah?" She rose to her feet and settled in next to him, their shoulders touching. He didn't recoil from the contact; if anything, he leaned into her. "And where's _home_ nowadays?"

"I don't know. That's the problem."

She studied him for a long time, counted the steady beats of his pulse, each breath of air he drew in. How, even when he was a vegetable, he would do little more than stare forlornly out the solitary window of this dreary room, the blinds often casting shadows like bars across his face. Meg followed his eyeline to the invisible spot on the opposite wall. "You're okay, aren't you?" she asked softly, and sighed. "Not _okay_, but… the happy-go-lucky, stoned-on-the-hilarity-of-life thing. It's an act, isn't it?"

"I thought maybe it would feel better to smile."

Meg looked at him, tracing the lines of his profile with her gaze, surprising herself with how much she wanted to know the answer. "Does it?"

She could read the answer in the bow of his shoulders.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> *holds out tin cup* Reviews? Reviews for the crazy author?


	10. Nightmares

**Author's Note:** They should just to a whole spinoff with Megstiel. I love writing them. Such a fantastic dynamic.

* * *

><p><strong>NIGHTMARES<strong>

_7x17-21 - Hospital Speculation_

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><p>He has nightmares sometimes. Awake or asleep, it doesn't really matter.<p>

He doesn't need to sleep because he's not human, but he's tried it if only for a change of pace. The strange thing about his nightmares is that, while he struggles against invisible forces and a familial voice taunting him from beyond, he's never loud enough to cause much of a disturbance. Castiel doesn't like to inconvenience anyone, so he fights, Meg knows, in his own personal and sacrificial way.

Now, his eyes are glazed over in a desperate and incoherent way, trying to melt himself down into the bedsheets beneath his still body. He's trembling badly and breathing unevenly, and his eyes are sad pools of tormented waters.

It's always different. A new form of torture when Lucifer gets too bored with another.

* * *

><p>Sometimes he can't help the screams.<p>

He has no time to think before being cast into the throes of agony, sharp blade that isn't there cutting impatiently into the muscles of his chest. Screams erupt from his throat, and this is one of the bad days. The carving continues, without pause, searching in a brutal, determined, _giddy_ way. Castiel can't help but heave against the abuse, biting his lip so hard there's blood because _don't scream, don't scream, don't scream_. They are supposed to be keeping a low profile, and the flickering lights in the room will do their cover no good. His mind races, desperate for a way to get the pain to stop, to piece together some semblance of coherent thought. But it invades his mind and every fiber of his vessel and true form. The latter of those is what truly suffers.

He hears her voice break through the agonizing fog. "What's he doing now?"

Castiel grits his teeth, cringing away in shame. "Tearing out my Grace," he barely manages out, until a short stream of whimpers follow.

"He's not there."

A breath escapes him like a sob. "I can't… I can't feel it."

"Well, I can."

His head turns slowly, eyes dragging up to meet hers, and Meg sees the question there. He blinks when he feels her hand grip his, drawing it to her face. Castiel feels the cool flesh of her cheek, not knowing what she wants him to do.

"Come on, feathers."

"I don't understand."

"Make like you're gonna smite me," she tells him, lips quirking in an almost private amusement. "Only, you know, don't actually do it. If you don't mind."

He swallows down another cry. Shakes his head, the movement constricted against the corner of the wall. "I—I can't. Why are you…?"

"Come on, you impotent sap," she murmurs, though the smile in her eyes tells him the dig is meant with affection.

Castiel wires his eyes shut against another onslaught, but does as she asks, concentrating every effort into the otherwise simple task. Soon enough, there is a small throbbing of light. Meg shuts her eyes against the flare of pain, but doesn't recoil. The swirling black smoke of her visage recedes until all he sees is an apple face framed in curls, dark eyes and ruby lips curved into a smile.

"Thatta boy. You've still got it, sugar."

* * *

><p>He has that look on his face. The piteous expression she's come to recognize as his <em>nightmare<em> face.

Meg sighs, walking over until she's beside him in the corner. She slides down the wall until she's sitting next to him. His knees are drawn to his chest, arms at his sides, and he stares despondently towards the other side of the room, gaze fixed and hopeless.

"What's he doing?" she asks. "Ripping out your wings or something?"

It's not until she can see the tears filmed over his eyes that she realizes she didn't think angels could cry. "No. He's… killing my loved ones. Over and over again."

Meg slings an arm around his shoulders, tucking him against her.

* * *

><p>"Why are you here?"<p>

"Your buddy Deano asked me to babysit you."

"I don't understand why you seem to be following his instructions."

"Well, Beautiful Mind, it's not so much following his instructions as it is looking out for _you_."

"I understand that even less."

Meg smirks down at him. "I'm full of surprises, baby."

Castiel turns his head away. "Get away from me," is his weary murmur.

"Aww. That hurts my feelings, Clarence."

"You're not real."

"I am, actually. Very. Why? Brother Dearest making you dream about me? Anything good?"

"Stop," he whispers.

But Meg's brow quirks and she gives the prostrate angel a onceover. "Why are you holding yourself like that?"

He glances at her, vulnerable still, but no longer as pitiful. "I can't move."

Like _she's_ the idiot, for not knowing this. Meg looks down, seeing the way his arms dig into the mattress, fists clenched tight, as if there are invisible bonds holding him down. Castiel feels the unprompted brush of contact when her fingers close gently around his wrist, lifting it up for his eyes to see. "No you're not. Look."

He stares at the display in silent wonder, noting the difference between her fabricated touch in the hallucinations and the feel of her skin in reality. She's warmer than he expected. He remembers thinking that when they'd… _not of import_.

* * *

><p>"Please… <em>please<em>, make it stop," he whispers one day, when the evening's _activities_ become more than he can handle. And it must be bad, for him to break like this. He turns his head away, ashamed for his weakness and the guilt and the burden of his existence. Then suddenly she's grabbing his face and forcing it back to her, lips fastening to his like a welded bond. He's stunned into shock, too taken off guard to reciprocate, and she pulls away with a lazy smile.

"How's that, feathers?"

He stares at her, like she's the answer to every desperate prayer. "Could you… again?" he murmurs, voice broken and raw. Pleading, and for what? Neither of them really know.

Meg chuckles down at him, propped on her knees, and scrapes her nails lightly along his jaw. "Anytime, Castiel."

The second kiss provokes his undivided attention, and he bleeds into it desperation and longing. Meg feels the way he mourns every little thing.

* * *

><p>"Why do they stop when you touch me?"<p>

"Mastered in the art of torture, remember?" Meg reminds him with evident pride, a single dark eyebrow arching into her hairline. "That means I can work the antidote too. For what little good it'll do."

He looks at her for a long time, the closest thing she's ever seen to a smile crossing his drawn features. "Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Reviews are like little baby Megstiels. If you're into that. :)

You should be into that. Think of the cute. THINK of it.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.


	11. Forget

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay, guys. I was busy writing another standalone sort of oneshot challenge for Megstiel. It's called "Five Times" if you're interested, and it's basically five times Castiel gets his crazy fixed. Rather, five different ways it could happen, and Meg is the primary instigator in three of them. Link if you want /, otherwise just visit my author's page and find it there. :)

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><p><strong>FORGET<strong>

_Post 7x23 (speculation)_

* * *

><p>He'd been calling for her for well over an hour now, standing alone in the deserted park, the tranquil sounds of twilight filling the brush. Leaves rustled at his feet, a wind picked up and tugged playfully at the ends of his trenchcoat, and the temperature dropped a few degrees.<p>

"Hey, dumbass."

Castiel sighed, something close to a smile edging uncertainly at the corners of his mouth. "I assume that is a term meant with a measure of some affection," he said, turning around to face her.

Meg arched an amused eyebrow. "You assume a lot."

Her lips formed a smirk, and Castiel felt a good deal of that tension uncoil from inside him. The battle was over, the leviathans were destroyed, and he had no idea what to do next. He looked at her, an automatic sense of relief filling him with something approaching actual warmth. He'd grown too fond of her over the past several months, too attached, and it was too late to undo any of it.

"I missed you," confessed Castiel heavily.

Meg scoffed, immediately put off. She fixed him with an irritated look. "What have I told you? Eighty-six the sappy BS or—"

"No. This is… honesty." He felt weighted down by anchors again. Heavy shackles hellbent on grounding him to the earth despite that he was sure it would soon open up beneath him. "Meg, I…"

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him—really _looked_ at him. There was no mistaking the way her abrasive tone softened with every word. "What's wrong with you?" Her peeved affability transformed into genuine concern, and though nothing short of an emotional magnifying glass could prove the change, he could see it. He could feel it, because already the world seemed less cold.

"It's gone." At her inquiring expression, he went on helplessly. "The broken wall, it's gone. It's all gone." His voice had grown fainter nearing the end of his explanation, and he looked at her with pure dependency, with such aching despair, that Meg felt something sharp burrow into her chest. Castiel might have been free of that burden, but he was crumbling in its place.

Still, sarcasm was what she knew and the crutch she would always fall back on. "About damn time."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, gaze drifting away and combing over the empty swings and monkey bars with some envy. "I can't seem to drown them out."

"What do you mean?"

"Their faces; all the lives lost I'm responsible for. Their voices. The devastation I wrought across this earth because I was desperate." Meg said nothing when the angel looked back to her, deep sadness pooled in his eyes. She only waited, listening. "You can't imagine what I…" Castiel shook his head, lowering his eyes momentarily to his feet before turning again to her. "I remember everything, but I feel it, too. I _feel_… all of it, and it's… I just wish that I could forget. I don't understand this feeling and I wish it would stop."

Meg had already slipped up to him, a foot or so away now. She stared at him, understanding, yet trying still to figure him out. "So, what… you call me?"

He nodded, looking down at her tiny form as though he were really looking up. Like he may as well be on his knees before her, asking her for guidance. She had done so many horrible things herself, but he saw none of that. He cared only to silence his own misdeeds, if only for the night, so that he could have a chance to breathe. "Help me forget, Meg." His voice, tired with use and with the exhaustion of battles and unrelenting dark thoughts, grew faint as a whisper. "I can't stand these memories any longer. Just for the night. Please."

Meg shook her head at him, drinking him in with pity. "Oh, Cas." She took one step closer so that their bodies brushed one another's and she leaned against him and he leaned into her, bowing his head. Her fingers lifted and weaved through his hair, stroking the downy black softness. "You poor thing."

It was only a moment before he was lifting his eyes and her lips claimed his in a remunerating kiss. He'd saved her many times over the past few days, and, more than that, she could always forgive him. She'd done so much worse, or was at the very least just as bad, and she was an easy presence to fall into. Meg felt his arms come around her in what had initially been a halfhearted embrace. He really was tired. But, it wasn't long before the painfulness of those memories began to eat at him in earnest, and his desperation to lose himself increased into an outlet of passion. He could see her true face and he did think it was beautiful. Compared to what his own reflection must look like, he could look on her for centuries to come and think nothing but praises on the thorny mess they had both become.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> What's better than a review, you ask? Basically, nothing in the world.


	12. Symbiotic

**Author's note:** Thank you for all the lovely reviews everyone! You are simply amazing, the lot of you, and you have fetching cheekbones! *throws bunnies at readers*

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><p><strong>SYMBIOTIC<strong>

_Post 7x23 Speculation_

* * *

><p>"When are you going to tell them?" she asks, stretching like a contented cat. They're an entanglement of limbs on the bed, sheets twisted around their bodies, and the round cushion of her cheek rests against his heart. It's a funny feeling, this intrusion of space both physical and emotional, but his thoughts are too remote to really give it a name.<p>

"Tell them what?" Castiel asks. He's rolling an errant lock of her hair between his fingers and doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Meg smirks at him. With a purr of laughter, she's risen to her knees, straddling his waist, and demanding his attention with every seductive caress in her arsenal. "That you no longer have the mentality of a five year old," she points out like it's obvious. And it is. He looks troubled by the thought, and his companion presents him with a head tilt of her own. At his usual silence, Meg eases down, one hand splayed against his ribs and the other grazing up his chest, over his collarbone, and into his dark head of hair. "Don't get me wrong," she starts, nibbling along his jaw. The shadowy tresses of her hair form a canopy around their faces. "I like having you all to myself."

"I haven't decided," he admits after awhile. When she peppers his lips with lazy kisses, his reciprocations are distracted and halfhearted.

Meg sighs, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his neck. A loud, sloppy kiss to the hollow of his throat, and she's changing tactics. "And what about me?" Castiel feels her lips curve into a salacious smile against his skin. One corner of his mouth quirks at her twisted sense of humor. "When are you going to tell them about me?"

"The day after never, seems the likeliest."

Meg admonishes him with a playful growl, nipping his chin. "You know I love it when you make jokes at my expense."

Castiel lifts a dark eyebrow. "You seem to enjoy the fact that I can joke at all."

"I'll admit, your little headtrip was useful for something—if only to remove that heavenly stick from your ass. Most of your jokes still suck, but you're learning." She flashes her dimples at him when his eyes narrow in lax reproval. He's more amused than offended. More and more, her little barbs serve lately to coax some banter out of him rather than actual threats. Meg can't get enough; the moody little cloudhopper is just too damn fun. "You'll hurt my feelings, Clarence. Hiding me away like this."

He grunts, the gesture somehow resembling a laugh. "If you had feelings at all, I might regret the decision. Truthfully, it's more shame at myself than it's ever been you."

"Touché, angel. You're a regular maudlin tragedy."

"You're mocking me again."

Meg bares her teeth at him in a broad grin, eyes shifting between black and their natural mahogany color. "Gold star for you, boy. Brains like that… you're going places, baby."

Another of those narrowed glances and he's flipping her over and making her retract every little insult with merry willingness. The way her squeals of delight melt into throaty chuckles and breathless gasps, any punishment is short-lived and they begin the dance again.

Their relationship is symbiotic. She provides him an outlet for his frustrations, he makes sure that she stays alive. Somewhere along the way, the established ground rules shift to the point where they find themselves actually enjoying the others' company. It's complicated, they'll tell everyone. Most of all, themselves.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> As if you couldn't tell by these multiple 7x21 - 7x23 ficlets... I want my broody angel back lol. As fecking adorable as Bonkers!Cas is... bring back my baby and his angst.

Also? Reviews cure the tears of sad babies around the globe. Scientific fact.


	13. Alphabet

**Author's note:** Wanted to try out this style for them. These are all notes I had that, as standalones, never really amounted to any full oneshots. So now you have a series of drabbles. Tadah! The entries have no particular order, and bear random spoilers from season five to season seven. Some even venture into AU land.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong><em>A is for Acceptance<em>**

"I'm calling in my favor."

The words carry such an ominous weight, but the sunny-side-up angel hears them at face value and responds with nothing but warmth. "You know I would do anything for you. It isn't _one_ favor." Castiel smiles when he feels her lay a hand on his chest.

Meg's eyes are not smiling. "I want you to fight."

The angel reacts just as she expected he would. His gaze darkens, every trace of happiness melting away. Slowly, he removes her hand, staring at her like she's Judas personified. He is so much more than conflicted—there is terror and hurt weaved into every frozen corner he keeps locked away. This is everything he's tried so hard to forget.

"You told me _anything,_ Castiel. Are you a liar?"

"Meg…"

"No. You're going to do this. And you're not even going to do it for me. You'll do it for them. Because it's who you are."

Castiel knows she's right before he'll ever admit it out loud.

"It's time to step up, angel. No more hiding."

* * *

><p><strong><em>B is for Blue<em>**

She can't remember his eye color.

She can't remember if they were sapphire or cerulean or pale or a thousand different shades of the ocean. She's starting to forget, and demons shouldn't miss angels when they die. Meg wants to scream and claw out her own traitorous heart, but she doesn't. It wouldn't stop nor would it change anything, nothing would end. She'd just need a new meatsuit, and she has to keep this one. For when he comes back. Because she thinks he really likes this one. So she'll take good care of it, for him. For when he comes back.

Because he's coming back.

He has to.

_He has to. _

When he does come back, she's furious. When she sees him for the first time—_him_, not the pitiful amnesiac soul who doesn't even know his own name—she beats her fists against his chest and screams at him for his stupidity until her throat is raw. He lets her. He doesn't say anything. But what can he say?

They never speak of it.

His eyes are still the brightest blue she's ever seen. They are the color of the sky after a storm.

* * *

><p><strong><em>C is for Concern<em>**

They'll find out later that it's a hex, but at the time, he's just as baffled as her when she doubles over, lightheaded, blood spotting her lips. She coughs and coughs and her eyes water from the internal pain that never stops because she cannot die.

His gaze travels down, combing over her form when she stops so suddenly, breaking their pace. "What's wrong with you?" he says, tone somewhere between alarmed and being put out for the delay.

It's the first time he's ever shown true concern for her, and they'll bicker back and forth like children, he'll need to carry her the rest of the way because she no longer stand, and he will be the one to track down and smite the witch.

* * *

><p><strong><em>D is for Domestic<em>**

Meg squawks when her hunting partner collapses on top of her, resting his feet up on the farthest arm of the couch. His head is in her lap and her research has been rudely interrupted. But, when she fixes him with a fiery glare, slamming shut her book and tossing it aside, his eyes are already closed. She gives him an indignant shove. "Get off me, feathers. I'm trying to work."

Castiel settles in, sighing tiredly. His own research book is abandoned at the table. "Try to move me again, and I'll smite you." Meg growls low in her throat, slumping with exasperation in her seat. "Sit still," the angel mumbles, head tucked against her cozily. "I only want a minute."

Her fingers grip into his hair, full of punishing intent, but with an underlying softness she gives a tug. "What am I going to do with you, Clarence?"

"Decide while I rest," is his suggestion.

Meg snorts, patting his stubbly jaw in irked resignation. "Yeah, yeah." When she allows her fingers to absently play through his hair, he sort of shivers and bunches up like a cat—a sight too adorable for her peace of mind. Meg rolls her eyes, but the affection seeping through her trademark sarcasm is evident. "You'll pay for this later."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

><p><strong><em>E is for Explosion<em>**

The blast is powerful enough to rock them both. When he comes to, he finds himself halfways out of his vessel, leaking light into the otherwise empty dark room. Castiel crawls over to her, wounded and out of sorts. The sight of her small host torn to pieces and barely holding itself together brings him great anxiety that's unexpected. "Meg." She stirs, and he feels the hairs on his neck rise at the thought of company. They have to leave. Ignoring her whimper, he slips an arm under her knees and another beneath her shoulders. "Hold on to me."

Her only working limb stutters in motion, finally lifting to curl around his neck. Castiel rises to his feet, the demon in his arms. A moment later, they're winked out of existence.

With a weak flutter of wings, they land far away. He places her gently on the bed of an empty motel room,  
>hands immediately going to her torso and ignoring his own injuries. Meg squirms, grimacing, and turns away from him.<p>

"I can't heal you." He says this with heavy disappointment, but there is no surprise there.

"Don't sweat it, hotfudge," the demon grits out. She isn't sure if the dampness of her eyes is because of the foreign matter, or if they're actually tears. Everything hurts like hell.

"Meg," he murmurs, stroking a curl of dark hair from her bloodied face.

"I said I'm fine."

He nods, allowing her obstinacy in favor of slipping onto the bed beside her, drawing her small body against his. Meg considers resisting, but eventually surrenders to the safe shroud of his arms. Castiel feels her shuddering sigh through the contact of their bodies, and he holds her tighter. "No one will find you here. I promise."

A jerky nod, so faint, and a pained but reassured whimper is the only response he receives.

His Grace is flickering like a candle, too slow to mend itself, but the creature in his arms is alive. Somehow, that makes everything all right.

* * *

><p><strong><em>F is for Forgiveness<em>**

He stares at her, evidential tears still clinging to his lashes, and shakes his head. "What is it about you?" he whispers.

"_And what about me? Do I deserve forgiveness?"_

"_You're a demon. You cannot help your nature. The things I've done… I deserve whatever they say about me. However they punish me."_

He doesn't understand how, out of everyone he's ever known, she is the first to take him back. To forget what he's done in lieu of who he is.

_What is it about you__?_

Her face is close to his, voice soft, eyes softer. Daring him. "Why don't you find out, Castiel?"

He does. He finds every answer in the taste of her mouth, the warmth of her skin, and the silk of her hair as it slips through his fingers like dark sands of an hourglass.

* * *

><p><strong><em>G is for Grace<em>**

When he suffers the hit, it takes him a long time to get back up and Meg has to dispatch of the other enemy angel herself. Castiel stumbles when he gets to his feet, swaying so badly that Meg has to lend an arm to keep him upright. "Come on, Clarence, shake it off," she says dismissively. But he seems frozen in place, unexplainably pale. His breathing is soft enough, but it's coming in quiet gasps, like he can't quite catch his breath. "Castiel? Castiel!"

Not even three seconds later, every ounce of his strength gives out and Meg has to reserve all of hers just to keep him from landing like a rock on the hard cement. She barks out his name a few more times, but he's coughing blood and there is light coming from a stab wound she'd somehow missed. Meg maneuvers him onto his back and presses down hard on his chest over the injury. Castiel yells out and his eyes light up like stars before he's throwing his head back. The scream that comes out of him next isn't human.

Meg winces against the onslaught, face twisted up at the violent ringing in her ears. "Stop it, you ass. I have to stop the bleeding." She looks down, seeing though that it's not the angry red of blood seeping between her fingers. Not blood, but something much worse. Meg stares at the liquid light in horror, feeling the way it sears at her skin upon contact. "Oh, hell…" she whispers, and quickly tries to regroup. "Alright, feathers, hold on. You're not going to like this." Meg maneuvers above him and presses down on his wound with her full weight, ignoring the quake of her voice and the way her heart twists at his obvious suffering.

Castiel's lips part in an anguished cry, but no sound comes from his body's vocal chords. Only the sound of his true voice as every window in the building explodes in a shower of glass. Meg cries out around gritted teeth, eyes wired shut. She should be dead from the holy onslaught, but he must be holding back just enough to spare her from becoming a burnt out husk on the ground. Moments later, her phone is out and she's unloading all her panic onto the oblivious Winchester on the other line. She doesn't even register what he's saying, only that it isn't helpful. He has too many questions and not enough answers.

"Dean, how do I help him?" she shrieks, voice desperate and lacking its usual melodic drawl. "He's—he's bleeding Grace and I can't—"

"_What? Meg, slow down!_"

"_Light_. He's bleeding light, you asshole! I—dammit, _please_, what do I do? What the hell do I do?" She abandons her dignity in favor of saving the broken creature dying beneath her. Vaguely, the older Winchester's reply registers with her, but she can't stop looking at _him_. "Shit, shit, shit…" she whispers despairingly, before transitioning to the old Enochian Dean is reciting in her ear. She looks at the Grace weeping out of the angel's form and thinks that something so damn beautiful should never cause this much pain. If he survives this, she's going to kill him. "Alright, handsome," Meg says around another tremor of concern, propping Castiel up against the stone wall and placing one of his hands over her sternum. "Time to cop a feel."

She no longer has a soul—and if she does it's been blackened and charred long ago. But, if they're lucky, the little number from Sheboygan she's been riding still does.

* * *

><p><strong><em>H is for Hickey<em>**

"Jeez, Cas, you get in a fight?"

A furrowed brow serves as the preemptive response before the angel's familiar monotone adds, "What?"

Sam merely points at him in explanation.

Castiel glances to the mirror in his peripheral, becoming a little startled. There are scratches on his face, tears in his clothing, shirt partly open, and his tie is more askew that usual. In all his fluster, he'd forgotten to heal and re-clothe himself properly. It seems that what people said about _the_ _heat of the moment_ was frighteningly true. "Uh… yes. Demons."

"I'll bet it was," comes from Dean. Castiel looks at him sharply, but the hunter's face is relaxed as he goes on. "There've been buttloads of 'em lately. Maybe there's a reunion in town or something."

Castiel offers a jerky nod and averts his eyes. "Perhaps."

Upon providing the brothers with the information they'd requested, Dean shakes his head and chuckles to himself when the angel vanishes in a rustle of wings.

Sam smirks his way. "What?"

"Our little angel's all grown up and gettin' laid, Sammy." He turns back to his work, trying, despite his pride, to wash the image away of the hickey he'd noticed peeking out from Castiel's shirt collar.

Sam laughs.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I is for Illness<em>**

Meg stares blankly at the shivering angel before her with some trepidation. "The hell's wrong with you?"

"I… I don't know. I feel…" Castiel can't complete the sentence, whether because he's shaking so badly or because he doesn't know the answer, Meg isn't sure.

Her hand finds its way to his chest, feeling the temperature there through the fabric of his shirt. "You're hot."

"Is that another flirtation?" he mumbles, curling smaller against the onslaught of tremors.

"No, dumbass," she replies, palm closing over his forehead. "You have a fever."

"Oh."

"_Oh_? What does that mean?"

He hesitates, pondering over the situation. "I think I may be Falling."

Meg utters a laugh, though there's very little humor to it. She's as stunned as he is. "Seriously?"

"Or some common affliction, mystical or otherwise. It's difficult to tell."

"So either you have angel flu or you'll be human at the end of the week. Well, that's good to know."

Castiel sneezes, and it's clear the motion aggravates an already flaring headache. His startled expression makes her laugh. "I think I'd prefer the mortal sufferings of humanity."

"Well, humans get sick all the time. Hate to burst your bubble."

Castiel groans.

* * *

><p><strong><em>J is for Joke<em>**

Meg looks at him in admiration, taking in the sight of the sizzling corpses with great satisfaction. All of them are angels, and all of them are very dead. He was a fighter before, but lately his skill seems to have decupled. It's hot, and Meg loves watching him go vengeful.

"I don't know what made you finally decide to grow a pair, Castiel, but I gotta say… I like it." Her smile is honey and vinegar and a thousand sharp things. His head tilts, brow knitting in that endearing way.

"A pair of what?"

Meg laughs heartily, bumping against him before trekking on ahead. "Oh, Clarence… your people skills are showing."

He only looks more confused, but follows after her nonetheless.

* * *

><p><strong><em>K is for Killer<em>**

They're both designed for destruction, but Meg thinks that maybe they were meant to kill together.

They work in tandem. Their symbiosis is too perfect, their offense and defense too complementary. Their strategies align, like stars and planets ought to and ought not. They slash and tear at enemies like they were made for this. He attacks from above, she from below.

They are Death and Judgment, wrapped in one.

* * *

><p><strong><em>L is for Love<em>**

"Dean, wait! Don't—"

The hunter wields the demon knife like a bad omen, and Meg looks scared as she's ever been. But the angel's interference startles them both into silence. "Cas, are you serious?" the older Winchester barks out, when he can form words.

"Please, I…" Castiel breaks off, stricken and speechless and too lost to say the right thing. He knows what he wants to say, what he was _going _to say, but it will only make things worse and the situation is due for some levity. Except no one's calm and Dean is already cutting him off with a growl as sharp as that knife.

"If you _say_ it, Castiel… I swear I'll kill her. I'll kill her right here and now!" He must see the forbidden words pouring out of the blue eyes that silently plead with him, because his lip curls in a snarl and he gives his head a furious shake. "Don't you _dare_. You _know_ what she is!"

Castiel reaches out an imploring hand. "I don't want her to die," he says, losing all confidence. There is panic and helplessness weaved into every subtle nuance of his face. "Dean, please." The angel hesitates, looking over the hunter's shoulder until his eyes meet hers, clear and honest and as blue as heaven's sky.

Meg is breathless, for the first time.

* * *

><p><strong><em>M is for Mortal<em>**

Meg gets stabbed with the demon knife—wrenched away by a stronger foe and turned against her too quickly for limited human eyes to follow. Castiel catches her mid-fall, cradling her close and watching the fiery flicker of death as it emanates from the wound. He presses his hand over where her heart should be and tries to heal her. He summons every ounce of Grace he has, forcing it into her.

This is how Meg becomes human.

* * *

><p><strong><em>N is for Never<em>**

Their argument is a particularly bad one. It's caked in heated words and angry jabs, cutting into skin where even cursed knives and angel swords cannot. She tells him she's leaving, because what else can she do? Their fight is not about them, but _the mission_. The odds are stacked against them and there's no coming out alive. But that's when he catches her by the wrist and pulls her back for a more intense kiss than the one which sparked the disagreement had been.

"I'd like it better if you stayed," he tells her when they can breathe, with startling honesty. It's so simple and why can't she understand? Why can't everyone else understand? So, so simple. "_Stay_."

Meg stares up at him, feeling small and insignificant because of what they are. "You and I will never work."

He stares back, level and unflinching. "According to who?"

She feels high above the whirlwind because of who he is. A broad grin splits her face with slow satisfaction. "That's my boy."

* * *

><p><strong><em>O is for Oblique<em>**

He's angry with her, and it shows. For a second, she fears him. But it passes quickly even when his heated words sear into her skin. "I won't be used. Not again, and certainly not by _you_."

They are two paths diverging from a given straight line or course.

"I know that," retorts Meg indignantly. "I wasn't going to _use you_, treetopper. I want us to work _together_."

He looks appalled. "That's even worse."

"Not as a business deal, you overgrown pigeon," she stresses to him, her fingers closing around his forearm. "_Together_. Sticking together, having each other's backs. The whole, sugary nine. What do you say?"

Castiel isn't sure which scenario makes him more ill at heart. "As a temporary solution," he agrees finally, as though uttering the words have him choking on shards of glass.

Meg smiles at him, and it's less devious and more sincere than he's ever seen. But still a _little_ devious.

"This is going to be fun, Clarence. We're gonna have a good ol' time, just you wait."

If he hadn't been regretting his decision before, he sure as hell is now. Castiel sighs deeply.

This would not end well at all. Oh, but it would end.

Everything did.

* * *

><p><strong><em>P is for Puppy<em>**

The angel's face scrunches up in what could be either apprehension or bewilderment. "What is that?"

"It's a _puppy_, Clarence. Damn thing followed me back here." Meg considers the peppy ball of fur beneath a raised eyebrow. "A corgi, I think."

"It's… cute."

Meg turns to him, eyebrow quirking further and a sly smile twitching at her lips. "You're a damn softie, you know that?" Castiel ignores her, stooping down to pick up the tiny animal. He cradles it in his arms, giving it an experimental stroke behind the ears. The puppy is immediately in favor of the attention. Meg scowls. "We're not keeping that thing."

Castiel's eyes lift to meet hers and he looks as though she's mortally wounded him. Meg rolls her eyes. "Leaving him here would be unwise."

"Whatever," she snarls, stomping off to go pick a bar fight.

Weeks go by. The thing is more trouble than it's worth, but her cloudhopper likes it, so… she tolerates it. Truthfully, she prefers hellhounds. He ends up calling it by a weird name she can't even pronounce so she just calls it _thing_, and it's so repulsively cute that she needs to pick fights and cuss daily just to get the happy out of her system. They end up finding it a nice little home in northern Minnesota and Castiel sulks for days.

Worse, Meg misses the damn thing too.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Q is for Quail<em>**

Their motel room is a welcome sight compared to the slimy _mess_ they'd left behind at the factory. Mood brightened, Meg delivers some cheery barbs to kick off their usual repartee.

"I'm not in the mood," Castiel gruffs, tugging off his shirt and walking away to deposit it in the trash. It's been sullied beyond recognition. But then, she'd used him as a shield, so of course it is.

Meg feels her mouth water. "Ooh," she purrs. "Someone's buffer than I remember."

That gets his attention, for all the wrong reasons of course. Turning to her, his brow furrows in his patented look of bewilderment. "I… what?"

Stepping over to him, Meg runs her fingers up his ribs. He recoils instantly, shrinking away from her touch. "Put on some muscle, have we?" she goads, squeezing his bicep and trailing her nails over a pec to his shoulder.

"This is a vessel," states Castiel flatly, frowning at her wandering hands.

"Wasn't Jimmy killed off ages ago? It's all you now, Clarence." She grins up at him, delighting in his obvious discomfort. She can't help but needle at his shying away from her. "Look at the blushing angel. Not making you nervous, am I?"

"No," he tells her brusquely, removing her hand. "Your hands are cold."

Turning from her again so she's left staring at his back, he hunches down to retrieve a new shirt and tosses the other away. "Pants too," Meg advises, dripping innocence.

He stares at her pointedly, eyes narrowing a little. "The pants are fine."

Her eyes follow him as he brushes past to the wash and she's left alone in the room. "Bummer for me."

* * *

><p><strong><em>R is for Rescue<em>**

"Feeling your oats, are we, angel? Picking a fight with me like this," Crowley says, oozing menace.

Castiel stands tall, shoulders squaring. "Except I'm not an angel anymore."

"Right, right. _God_ now, and all that noise. In case you've forgotten, muffin, no more souls in your gullet."

A crack of thunder sounds ominously from above, darkening the sky. "No. As a matter of fact, I've been promoted recently." Castiel brings his forearm across his mouth, wiping the blood away. Amidst the lightning-ridden sky, several massive wings silhouette the clouds. Behind him, Meg cradles her broken arm, hunched on the ground, stunned by his interference in his fight.

Crowley, meanwhile, visibly tenses at the spectacle. "Archangel."

"You know what you are, Crowley?" growls Castiel, advancing slowly, allowing the question to hang for a moment. True fear fills the demon's eyes, for the first time in many years. "A _stain_."

After the King of Hell is reduced to a burnt crisp in the soggy earth, rainfall cascading around them, Castiel stands over the last remaining creature.

"You jackass," Meg grates in her best petulant tone.

"What?"

"I wanted to be the one to do him in."

His chuckling laughter is all she hears before his hand extends into her view and she's grasping it and he's pulling her to her feet.

* * *

><p><strong><em>S is for Shackle<em>**

They are iron manacles, coated in holy oil. It burns both their wrists raw of course, but serves more as a godawful annoyance than any true hindrance. Fighting is a damn headache. When he wants to go right, she's trying to go left, and they're both snapping at each other and eventually, he just drags her along with him. Meg swears and hisses at him in spite, at being hauled around like a toy, but he ignores her as usual and she just wants to dig her nails in and _tear_.

When everything around them is dead except, miraculously, themselves, the Winchesters find them in the process of ripping each other's throats out. Dean bellows out orders to simmer the hell down between gut-busting laughter, and Sam is blushing all kinds of red at the innuendos that are sure to come from the situation and due also to his own poorly suppressed amusement. Angel and demon both are yelling at them that this is anything but funny, and this serves only to make the brothers laugh harder.

Eventually, Dean and his blowtorch work together to break open a section of the links.

In the end, there are more death threats and more snarky retorts before there's any kissing and making up. But it does, much to the brothers' chagrin, come to that.

Meg mentions a pair of less harmful _manacles_, and suggests putting them and their bottled up frustrations to use. Castiel gives her a heated look, a few more death threats hanging on the tip of his tongue. Meg blatantly propositions him. Then, suddenly, the two of them disappear in a rustle of wings.

Sam's face scrunches up as though he's just tasted something sour. "Told you."

"_Maaaan_," Dean groans.

* * *

><p><strong><em>T is for Torture<em>**

Ruthless demon and masochistic angel naturally meet in the middle. The hallucinations having reached critical levels, Meg had offered her help in the only way she knew she could.

"Think of it as electroshock therapy for angels," she tells him. "It's the only way to get you back to your old fighting weight." He agrees with a nod, and is surprised to see her so suddenly nervous. "Are you sure?"

"I'm no good to anyone like this, do you agree or not?" She hesitates, and Castiel fears she may balk before they can even start. "Meg, you know the urgency of the current situation. I need to restore myself so as to be of better help."

"And these… _sessions_?" she begins, stumbling uncomfortably over the word. "You really think they'll help?"

"You were the one who suggested them."

"Honestly, I was in it for the kink," she offers up wanly, throwing him a halfhearted smile.

To her surprise, a brief one of his own ghosts across his lips. "It worked before."

"That was to get you to stop smiting hospital staff members."

"Nevertheless."

Meg sighs, eyeing him critically. Finally, she reaches over and gives the angel's chin a squeeze, smile lurking beneath her passive expression. "Fine. But we're going to make this as pleasurable as possible." She leans in to him, her lips hovering a breath from his. "For any progress you make, you get a reward."

Castiel swallows the lump that's suddenly formed in his throat. Eyes dropping to half-mast, he offers a faint nod of agreement. "I suppose that's fair."

"Fair is a place you go to lose your lunch and win worthless prizes. This is going to be _fun_."

* * *

><p><strong><em>U is for Ulterior<em>**

She can't remember where it all shifted. When manipulating him became seeking him out. When curling her fingers into claws around the dark tufts of his hair became running them gently through it. When yanking him forward by his crooked tie became coaxing him forward to straighten it. When turning him over to Crowley… became shielding the angel from harm at all costs.

Meg looks over her shoulder from her place on the couch and calls over to him. "Hey assbutt, come out here."

The angel will never forgive Dean for repeating that lesser moment to the demon.

Seconds later, the bathroom door opens and a small cloud of steam wafts out. Castiel finishes toweling off his damp hair and goes to her. "What is it?"

Meg turns back to the television, feeling the cushions depress beside her. "Ever see _Lord of the Rings_?"

He shakes his head. "No, is it enjoyable?"

"You'll like it," says Meg, settling back against him. Castiel's arm goes around her. He's solid and warm and there's still a faint scent to his t-shirt, something like the aroma of rainwater and thunderstorms. Meg's hand squeezes his thigh, thumb caressing the rough texture of jeans as they wait for the movie to begin. "You smell good."

"I've just taken a shower."

Meg knows there's no amount of soap or motel water that can wash away _ode de_ _angel_ smell. The distinct aroma had once been enough to leave her nostrils burning and eyes watering. Turning her head, she presses a kiss against his stubbly jaw and deigns not to answer.

"You know, hobbits are not real."

Meg laughs, thinking about shifting magnets and negatives becoming positives.

* * *

><p><strong><em>V is for Vessel<em>**

He can't tell anymore where his vessel ends and he begins. Were he to ever find a new one, Meg would be disappointed. This vessel is right. In every way. It fits the angel's Grace like a glove, and it doesn't hurt that it's a real treat to look at.

Entangled with each other on the bed, Meg takes the time to count the few but appreciated freckles across his tanned skin. The faint scars on his chest from a banishment sigil that no human could see. The strong line of his jaw, the straight arch of his nose. The hidden blue eyes currently resting beneath their lids, but which shine vibrantly when he's awake. The crop of his clavicle, his shoulders, and the powerful curve of his spine. The dexterous hands, the toned, slender body. The dark shock of hair that's almost black and rarely tamed. The mark dangerously close to his heart where an angel blade had pierced—shallow enough to heal, deep enough to scar. This body has become a part of him, forever branded by his Grace. They're the same in this respect. Just like the lick of flame had marred her meatsuit's torso, they are the same.

Meg wonders, when she is the one sleeping, if Castiel ever studies her as she does with him.

He does.

* * *

><p><strong><em>W is for Wife<em>**

"I have a wife," he murmurs one day, almost to himself. The hustle and bustle of the ward fades to white noise until it's just the two of them, like always.

Meg smirks over at him, genuinely intrigued. "I heard," she replies. "Go you. I'm a little jealous, actually."

"Do you think she misses me?"

Meg shrugs. "I think a lot of people miss you. More than they let on."

She watches his eyes fill with that ancient sadness only broken friendships can yield, and they both know she isn't talking about Daphne Allen.

Meg sighs. "Come on, sunshine. Why don't we try out the dayroom?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>X is for Xenogenesis<em>**

The year is 2014. The world is full of Croats, death is everywhere, the devil walks the earth, and demons still hate angels, no matter how benevolent a truce pact may be. It's a tentative alliance, because the Morning Star has begun slaughtering the demons, just as predicted. Castiel has a machine gun, she a machete. His trenchcoat is gone and she no longer has the means or the time to keep up her tight curls, so the long locks of her hair hang straight and swirl like dark ribbons in the wind. He'll never admit how beautiful she is.

As usual, he wants to go right. She wants to go left.

"Have you not been listening? What, you got feathers in your ears or something?"

"Not likely, you stupid bitch." He can't call her ugly any more—not when he can't see her real face.

Her eyes are now pitch black, just like her insides. She'd noticed his apparent descent into snark-city (not to mention alcoholism and other habits) and can't for the life of her fathom how that came to pass. "Keep it up, you'll hurt my feelings, Clarence," she volleys acidly. "Though I suppose it's a step up from _abomination_."

"You don't have feelings, sweetheart."

The term is not said with affection.

"Neither do you," Meg throws back.

He actually looks offended. "I feel enough."

She believes him, sad to say. For a creature that was supposed to be as soulless as she, this little featherhead proved often a glaring exception to the rest of his kind. And Castiel thinks that, maybe a couple years ago, her words wouldn't have cut him like they do now. Back then, he was trying to be emotionless. _Just_, of course, but emotionless all the same. It's different now. Everything's different.

Maybe this little abomination is too. If he can change, why can't she?

"I'm not an angel anymore," he gruffs.

Her eyes snap back to his, startled. "You're kidding."

Castiel vaults a fallen street lamp, not looking back to see if she's behind him. "I am not kidding."

Her laughter makes his skin crawl. "Well, I'll be damned, baby. I thought you smelled dirtier."

He rolls his eyes as they enter an old library in search of supplies. Meg kicks over a dusty old encyclopedia labeled _X_ and flips it open with the very detached indifference that annoys him so much lately. Before, he'd been as apathetic as a post. Adjusting is so alien to him, even still.

Everything now reminds him of _before_.

"What the hell is xenogenesis?" Meg mutters, reading the text with distaste.

"The alternation of two or more different forms in a life cycle," he recites monotonously. "Will you move it along?"

"Don't get bitchy, _Bitchtiel_," she snarks back, dropping the volume and hurrying to catch up.

_If he can change, why can't she? _

He dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it comes. Though, of course, _before_… he wouldn't have even allowed such a thought to manifest in the first place.

Maybe they're both making progress.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Y is for Yellow<em>**

Often times, an _I'm tired_ from Castiel meant he wasn't in the mood for her barbs or her general existence. It never meant he was too tired for extracurricular activities. So when his lips are pliant and halfhearted beneath hers, Meg starts to wonder what the hell is up with her angel boy toy. His coat and suit jacket are gone, but his shirt remains and she happily tugs it out of his pants while playing with his tie. "Well, we don't need the full rodeo tonight… just a little giddy up."

After that, things get decidedly steamier.

"Yeehaw," Meg purrs in approval. She's to the fourth button of his shirt, tie long since discarded, when he tears himself away.

"Stop."

Great. He's feeling guilty about what they're doing again. Meg groans. "You were the one getting hot and heavy, chicken wings," she reminds him snippily.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he despairs in a quiet voice, not quite meeting her eyes.

Meg is amused. "In bed or in general?"

A glare. "I was referring _generally_, but I suppose I don't know of that, either."

It's true, of course. They've only just begun these little late night meetings, and she's never quite convinced him that far yet. "I'm always happy to play teacher."

"Not tonight."

"Yeah, so you said," Meg grumbles, plopping on top of him and curling into his side. "You're such a buzzkill."

They lay in silence for awhile, long enough that Meg is nearly asleep when he finally speaks. "I killed four of my siblings tonight. I'm tired, Meg."

That softens parts of her that have been constructed of stone for a very long time.

"Oh," she says quietly. Even she's demon (or human) enough to admit how much that sucks. "Sorry, feathers."

Castiel sighs, dropping a kiss absently onto the crown of her head. "Sometimes I think this is all pointless."

Meg wonders sometimes, too.

"Meg?"

His voice drifts over her sometime later, soft in the quiet darkness surrounding them. She mumbles some semblance of a response, allowing him the peace of running his fingers slowly through the ends of her hair.

"What is your favorite color?"

He wants to know things about her; things no one else does, or would even think to ask. Bizarrely, Meg feels an unprecedented comfort in that, which she'll never admit to anyone. Not even him.

He thinks maybe she'll answer with _red_ or _black_, just to be impossible. But Meg has never been predictable, and he silently admonishes himself of the error.

"Yellow."

Yellow. The color of her father's eyes, the derogatory slight she lays so often on Crowley and his minions. The color of the flowers he sometimes catches her looking at that he knows she favors.

Castiel has always been partial to black. It's not so much a color as a shade. A suggestion of darkness and yet a void to pacify warring thoughts. Peaceful, in a largely contrary way. It asked no loyalty of him, there was no need to choose a brightness, a true color. Black was neutral, it was safe. It was wild, and dangerous. It was the color of her hair at midnight, the color of her eyes when provoked.

"I favor blue, myself," he lies easily.

But Meg is a liar by trade, and sees right through it. She smiles to herself, not caring his answer at all. But she knows his answer all the same, and that is the thought that finally allows her to drift off to oblivion.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Z is for Zag<em>**

Her moods are so mercurial and his are possibly more so. It's a small phenomenon that they always seem to be at odds. But _of course_ they're at odds—why shouldn't they be? Angel and demon, after all. But never could they think how _in tune_ that force could become. They are a perfect mirror. Light and darkness, serenity and rage. Order, chaos. As one, they are an angular shape of powers, characterized by sharp turns in alternating directions. He goes right, she goes left. But they'll always meet in the center.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Reviews are like Halloween candies! Everyone likes them and they're never too old to eat!

So go ahead, guys. Tell me which one was your favorite.


	14. Bullet

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the lovely reviews everyone! As soon as I have time, I want to respond to each of them personally! :D

* * *

><p><strong>BULLET<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hold your water, I'm coming!" Dean bellowed moodily at the loud, incessant knocking on his motel room door. As soon as he saw who was on the other side, his expression twisted up into a vile grimace. He really should've known; the piercing tempo of the demanding knocks were starting to give her away. Not to mention, he was sure the temperature around him dropped a few degrees. "Look what the devil dragged in—rode hard and put away wet."<p>

"Someone reforged an angel blade."

"Into what?" asked Dean, forgoing pleasantries and diving straight for the meat. He still hadn't let her into the room and he wasn't going to either. Call him petty.

"Bullets," Meg dully replied.

"_Bullets_?" The hunter made a face, impressed. "Why the hell didn't _we_ think of that?"

"HEY! _Dumbass_!" she practically shouted, because he wasn't _paying attention_, and his douchey oversight could wind up costing them both dearly.

Dean instantly bristled, looking down at the tiny demon with thinly-veiled loathing. "The hell's your problem, bitch?"

There was a tightness to her voice as she replied, an underlying urgency. "Ask me why _I_ know about this."

He was about to reply with a nasty retort, but, for the first time, noticed the blood on her hands and instantly blanched. Meg could have been killing angels herself for all he knew, but Cas hadn't been answering Dean's calls. Instantly, he knew. "Where is he?"

* * *

><p>When Meg brought him to Cas, Dean felt ill at the sight. He shouldn't have been, because he could handle a lot, but somehow, this was different.<p>

The angel was huddled in a corner of the factory, making himself as small as possible, shivering. His face was ashen and clammy, eyes too dull, and lips a pale shade of blue. Meg was already speaking before Dean could utter a sound. "He's here now, Cas, alright? Look."

Dean stared at her, confused, when she suddenly handed him an unfamiliar pistol. "What—"

"He wouldn't let me clean him up until I got this to you," Meg said by way of explanation. "Stubborn assmonkey."

Dean watched the proceedings, numb.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel was saying, voice rough and stripped raw, and he was having trouble breathing. "We couldn't get the weapon to you fast enough. Meg is… limited. More so than I."

"Thanks a lot, feathers," Meg muttered, but there was real anxiety layered beneath the sarcasm. She knelt beside him and spread open his coat.

Dean felt sick all over again. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he grimaced, a mixture of sympathy and concern filling his voice. "Jeez, Cas."

There were several pinpricks of light bleeding through the angel's shirt along with the flow of blood. Castiel's tremors had intensified, his breathing even more labored than before. "Did you get any out while I was gone?" Meg was asking.

One of the angel's clenched fists lifted for her inspection, fingers curling open shakily to reveal three mangled slugs.

"Good boy. How many left?"

The rounds clattered to the encrusted floor and Castiel slumped back against the wall, spent and weak. He'd lose consciousness soon. "Five."

"Shit, baby," Meg murmured, tugging open his shirt and turning then to Dean. "There's equipment over on that table."

Dean complied with the unvoiced request, dragging it over. "Can I help?" he asked, because he needed to. He'd been the one to send Cas out on this little demonic milk run; it was his fault. _His fault_.

The veins of Castiel's neck had become a dark lattice work of bruises and Dean's stomach churned. He should have known. He should have _known_. Damn demons and their damn twisted schemes. He'd been so worried about the fate of humanity, the fate of average Joes everywhere, that he'd forgotten about his own friends. About the only supernatural creature to ever stand up beside them as an equal. A brother.

"Probably," Meg answered, with some snark, jerking him out of his incriminating thoughts. "You're good at this."

She wasn't wrong. Digging out bullets came with the trade. But it was times like these when Dean really wished he'd been an investment banker.

The angel's chest was a gory abstract of blood, bruises, open wounds, and weeping light. He wouldn't be able to heal himself until every trace of poisonous shrapnel was gone. And even then, there was a chance this caused him permanent damage.

But Meg had been there, at his side, in an instant. If not for her, this peculiar, self-sacrificing creature would have died. Dean saw it in the way the demon's fingers caressed dejectedly over flaring scars and scorching bursts of Grace before they set to mending. She hid it well, but he could hear it in her voice; the masked panic. The compassion.

The intrinsic _need_ for this angel—her sworn enemy—to be okay.

She was not so evil as she claimed. But then again, perhaps she was; hatred was a form of passion, after all. Whatever the case, it was in this moment, seeing the way tiny pale fingers curled around the tanned and bloody ones of Thursday's angel, that Dean Winchester decided to give the sardonic little abomination a chance.

Because Castiel's fingers gripped back like she was a lifeline, and it made sense. Everything clicked into place, like bullets into chambers of a gun.

"Hang in there, Cas," said Dean, because he understood, finally. "Hang in there."


	15. Heart

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the wait. Busy with my job as well as planning for my Comic Con trip. 10 DAYS!

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><p><strong>HEART<strong>

_Season 8 Speculation_

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><p>He moves rapid, like a whip crack. Glides through hordes of fallen men with rotting faces and sharp teeth, claws that dig in and tear, as though they're raindrops. He kills them like knocking soda cans off a porch rail, each death just another number among dozens. They howl and lunge at him, corrupted forms arching like briars and snagging on his clothes. Castiel abandons his vessel's natural dimensions, stretching out with wings and Grace, singeing the black souls and attracting the desperate wails of the damned.<p>

He is here to save one, and one alone.

Castiel must kill every hellish beast with his own hands, because he has no sword; he'd given it to her. He's given her something else of his, too. Something much more powerful.

When he finds her—buried so deep in Crowley's own personally devised Pit, amid a thousand guard hounds and a thousand more psychic traps—she is surrounded by a black hole of circulating torment. A dark, emotional maelstrom clouds her like heavy acid and serrated knives. The breath rushes out of him as he pushes through the walls; the air so thick with smoke he dare not inhale.

At the sight of her, everything is right again. Broken shards of his mind rebuild, forging a new determination. With purpose, he slaughters the last remaining hounds with a ruthlessness he hasn't felt in ages.

Her chains are next. He shatters them with a thought, and they crumble in a rusted heap, eroding until they're little more than ash.

"You were hard to find," he remarks. And it's true; Crowley kept her as well-hidden as she was well-guarded.

There are tear tracks carved into her cheeks, somehow more poignant than the dozen lacerations marring her flesh, but she is still the bitter twist of thorns he somehow fell in love with.

The moment his long outline invades the opaque shadows of her delirium, Meg opens her eyes. "How?" she whispers. Her voice is stripped raw; a mangled thing.

"Unimportant," he replies, with a dismissive headshake. They'll discuss semantics when she is safe. His hands find her body, gentle but focused, and he veritably peels her from the torture rack.

Meg doesn't protest, but he knows she's in severe pain. She slumps against him, breathing in halting, quiet whimpers, and she shakes. "I'm sorry," she tells him.

Castiel understands. She's told Crowley everything about he and the Winchesters; every secret, every hideout, every weakness. She's more sorry that she'd given in; that Crowley won. "I know you are. Now, let me help you."

Meg gives a shuddering sigh, the motion causing her tiny shoulders to quake. "What the hell," she manages, and the angel sheds his favorite coat and secures it around her with more care than she'd thought possible of him. Even when he'd been a dopey basket case, he never touched her like this. A moment later, she's in his arms, and Meg can breathe again without the putrid stench of smoke choking her.

"They're coming," he says, calm—even while they're surrounded by inherent chaos. "I can feel them. Shut your eyes and do not open them until I say. I'll kill them, and you'll soon be safe."

She can feel his Grace pulsing beside her like a burning star, and Meg hides her face away in his chest, doing as he says. She offers up the barest whisper of a response, muffled against him until it's lost in the approaching sounds of the fallen and the damned.

_That's my boy._

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><p>"Why come for me?" she asks him when they're alone. <em>Really<em> alone, without the stench of rotting corpses and brimstone to accompany them. She is curled under the blankets of a bed in the closest empty motel room he'd been able to find. Her body fits perfectly against his, not unlike two puzzle pieces sliding into place. He'd settled in despite her protests, watching over his new charge with unwavering diligence. The shadow of one wing awns above them, the other providing a comfortable resting place that no motel mattress can provide. Meg hasn't felt so protected in a long time. If she'd ever felt such a way.

It isn't so awful.

"Because you stayed for me."

It's as close to a confession of love as they'll ever come and Meg feels a heavy pull in her chest. She curls into him more intimately, nose pressed against the hollow of his throat. She's not quite ready to come out of hiding yet. Almost a year she'd been Crowley's prisoner, but they both know how much time that really translates to. Castiel and Winchester Numero Uno had broken out of Purgatory only days ago. _Days_, and he'd come for her. The moment he'd learned where she was, he'd been gone in a resolute flutter of wings. All guts and powerful devotion. "You actually swooped in like some big damn hero and rescued me," Meg tells him, a bit reproachfully. "What's wrong with you?"

Castiel's arms come around her a little tighter. "I don't really know anymore," he quietly admits, after a moment.

There's a pause as his words settle into the silence around them, and the demon considers this. Considers, more importantly: his actions, his focus, and apparent togetherness even now. "You're not crazy anymore," says Meg, a note of what could be relief brightening her eyes.

"Perhaps not entirely true. After all, I did just besiege Hell to rescue a demon," the angel remarks, humor skirting around the edges of his tone. And if Meg isn't damn proud of him…

"As soon as I can stand on my own two feet, I'm taking you shopping," she avers, the declaration somewhat coming from leftfield. She still has his coat wrapped around her because her own clothing is in rags back in the Pit, and he's still wearing those godawful white hospital duds.

"What else would I wear?" asks Castiel, puzzled by the utter simplicity that these _are_ his clothes. He does miss the tie, though. It was symbolic, in a way—loose, but never without a strong knot. It always held him together. These days, he's not sure _what's_ holding him together.

"I don't know," Meg snarks, though by her smile, he knows her barb is layered with affection. "Something that doesn't scream _mental institution_. 'Kay?"

He nods, accepting of her demands. "Of course."

Meg shuffles closer, exhaustion seeping into every pore. She falls asleep with fingers gripped loosely around a handful of feathers, but not before getting in the last word. Old habits. "You kicked ass today, Clarence. Daddy would be proud."

She feels his smile against the crown of her head. "I'm still an angel."

Smug little bastard.

She doesn't say whose father she means, and he doesn't ask.

* * *

><p>He brings her clothes the following morning and Meg accepts them with long-suffering forbearance. "Cas, these are for an old woman."<p>

"As she's just passed, I presumed she wouldn't be needing them."

Meg rolls her eyes. "Ever the frugal thief. Fine—but the minute we get to the nearest Wal-Mart, I'm ditching this grandma dress and we're getting you into something with denim and leather."

Castiel is amused, the precious ass. And indulgent. "Whatever you wish," he says.

One sharp eyebrow arcs at him and Meg trades his coat for the dress, not bothering with modesty. "What about you? See anything you like?" she inquires surreptitiously, cinching the waist sash tight. She gives him a salacious onceover for good measure because she feels like herself again.

Castiel smiles down at her, donning his coat back on his shoulders when she hands it to him. "Glad to see that Crowley was unsuccessful in stripping you of your shame."

Meg shakes her head at him, rising up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "You love it." Pulling away, she manages to march towards the door while still swaying her hips. "Let's go, angel. Polyester itches like a bitch."

He knows she doesn't love him back—not really, and that's okay. He's used to that. But he thinks that if she ever could, this is as close as she'll come, and it's nice. Regardless, she has his heart. Whatever remains or ever was of it.

Castiel follows her out the door, shutting it with a click. The room behind is left spotless, and he feels somehow cleaner too.

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Every time you don't review, Meg holds Castiel hostage in the menstrual aisle.


	16. Together

**Author's Note:** I don't think I'll ever not enjoy writing these two. Such potential. They really need to amp up their interactions next season. Also, thank you everyone for the great and encouraging reviews! I stick my straw in them... and I drink them up!

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><p><strong>TOGETHER<strong>

_Post Season 7_

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><p>"This was foolish," he says, as the fires close in around them. There are so many flames licking at their feet, their faces, that the heat suffocates even creatures such as them. It burns where even scars dare not tread, scorching hearts that shouldn't be, and there is pain where there shouldn't be pain. The new King of Hell is more powerful than either had given credit, and they both had ventured a great deal where Crowley was concerned. It's a terrible thing.<p>

Against the smoke, against the odds and howling winds, she replies, "We knew we'd never survive." The air bites and tears at flesh like the jaws of hellhounds. Those are coming, too.

Castiel steadies himself, the grip on his sword tightening. The only thing tighter is the way he holds her hand. "I know."

His face is grimly set, his old focus and determination restored only to have it be the thing to kill him. Meg doesn't pull away. She's strangely afraid, and yet not. In her other hand, his old sword is bared. She'll fight with him, and he with her. At each other's sides is where they belong. Ages, it's taken for that truth to be revealed, discovered.

In Hell, every agony is intensified. Because, of course, Crowley had only revealed the showroom to the angel during his little tour. The atmosphere digs in like serrated knives, the ground catching on their feet like quicksand. Every avenue bears treacherous mines, emotional and physical. A waking nightmare curls around them like ugly vines, squeezing and infectious. Castiel needs to keep her alive, because he knows if he doesn't, there is only one thing worse than Hell for creatures like them. He has been to Purgatory, and nothing has so truly terrified him as that dark, twisted realm. It had cost him his Grace in so many ways, tarnished it to unthinkable amounts. There are times he feels he should be smiting the monster in the mirror on many a night.

Meg is a shell of her once human visage, barely even a remnant. She is a black echo of lost humanity, yet because of him, she has been fed a constant eddy of light—just strong enough to illuminate her dark nothingness into a dying ember of hope. She hates him for it, but sort of loves him, too.

Castiel looks at her, sharing a final glance at all that could have been and all that once was and is. This is the being he would sacrifice everything for. What small spark of life he retained after his rebellion, after his Fall, and after his numerous deaths—those flickering dredges would be at long last extinguished in her name. In her honor. "It was a great privilege," he tells her, with solemn veneration, "fighting at your side." _Being with you_, the silent voice in his thoughts idly adds, because he feels a swell of unexpected emotion at the knowledge that she will soon die. As will he, but he's experienced death so many times that it's no longer a mystery.

Meg stares back at him, the fire reflecting on the inky black surface of her true eyes in their reveal. It's like gazing into an abyss. There is mystery and the unfathomable depths of _respect, hatred, loyalty, passion_. She no more wants him to die than he does her. Around them, the chaos mounts to a cacophony of true peril. "You were something really damn special, Castiel," the melodic notes of her voice say, the hard edge just a little softer than usual. _I'll miss the way you save me_, goes the unspoken. But it's in her eyes, in her very demeanor, and he can see it.

Throat thick with dread, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. _I will miss you, too_, is his silent reply. At least they won't have to live without the other.

He is the shooting star to her emptiness. She, the gravity to his lonely heavens. They grip each other's hands so tightly, their vessels' bones fracture. The inferno roars, the hellhounds growl, and the damned wail of the inevitable. Swords flash, like sparks in the night. Grace and smoke merge in a final stand against a common enemy. Crowley's smirk descends like a mirage of mockery at their efforts from beyond the fray. In truth, he is a little disappointed.

No foe will ever challenge him as they have. They will mark the closest his defeat will ever come, and the sheer poetry of their journey is moving, even to someone such as him. They are the light and the dark becoming one. Fallen angel and rebel demon joining forces, yet victimized by a love that would only destroy them. Apart, they were broken. As one, they became an idea—a maelstrom of potential that dwarfed even the most powerful armies. They were the thing of history books, of myths.

They will go down as legends.

"I hated it when you tried to protect me," the demon says, in a voice more strained than it ought to be. The way he revered life since losing his mind, acting on her bad moods like some kicked puppy, calling her things like _beautiful_ and _perfect_ and even once her true name; all ridiculous.

"I hated how you constantly searched for trouble," the angel replies, his own voice heavy and pained. Her unrepentant lifestyle, her constant provocations, the way she often shunned his overt affections.

But they each think the same… _I liked that you were always there_. He loves her, but he shouldn't. She doesn't revile him, but has every reason to. This is why they've always belonged together.

This is both their fights—two opposite conflicts that merge into one burgeoning strength. Where one fights for supremacy, the other does for justice. But, as one, they hurl themselves into battle because this is a cause that must be won, even if it costs them their lives.

If they are to die today, they will go together.

"_Together_," they chorus, as they hurl themselves unforgivingly into exodus. Half of Hell is taken down with them, like pillars of corrupted stone crumbling down. Blood and death pave infinite chasms that quake because two single creatures sought to take a stand. Two creatures with no other cause but their own. Across universes, worlds pause to take in the sight. A hushed silence falls over galaxies, only the whisper of stars dare make a sound. They wink and stutter under the weight of resounding awe. The King of Hell suffers a great hit, and for one shining moment, the world is right again. It's in the time it takes for the sun to rise and fall, but for those transient hours, there is momentary peace. While far below, in the bowels of the earth, a whole new revolutionary war unfolds.

This is their swan song.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Reviews will save Megstiel. It's because I have no other choice.


	17. Forgettable

**Author's Note:** My babies! *coddles* I'll never leave you for so long ever again...

AU - if Cas had been able to fix Sam's wall without absorbing it.

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><p><strong>FORGETTABLE<strong>

_Post 7x17 AU_

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><p>He's been coming to her for a while. Not that he really has anywhere else to go. Frik and Frak don't really want anything to do with him right now, though they'd never say so aloud. There's still so much distrust checked behind masked eyes. Every time he looks at them, he feels the weight of every reprehensible thing he's ever done. If he stays with them, he'll lose his mind. He physically cannot bear the reminder of his misdeeds, and so he seeks her out. Looking at her, at that swirling smoke and twisted thorns, he sees a kindred soul. Something, perhaps, more evil than him. She's tamer now, a blessing of sorts, but he doesn't feel so overwhelmed by guilt when in her presence. They've both done things. Unspeakable things. If they face them together, or embrace the denial together, it's easier somehow. The pain less crushing.<p>

That onerous burden becomes a nagging whisper at the back of his mind where he can manage it. He never truly wants to forget, though there are nights he begs for it. For blessed oblivion. But that still-righteous part of him knows that he doesn't deserve absolution, nor the peace of a faded memory.

He must remember. Every day, he will know what he has done. He will know, and try to make amends.

If only it were so easy. He hasn't a clue how to set things right; with the Winchesters, with the world, with his Father—no one. Feeling suddenly suffocated, Castiel shifts to move, but her nails dig into the soft flesh of his chest and hold him in place.

"Where are you going?"

Her honey voice curls over him, dulcet and smoky. She's draped over him languidly, stretching like a cat. They're entwined together in the bedsheets, naked and still. She'd been so easy to fall into; remarkable how perfect, in an almost contrary way. Meg lies completely oblivious to the world and its problems, while Castiel stares at the ceiling, ponderous, a victim to his own thoughts. At her words, though, the angel is genuinely puzzled.

"I thought you'd want me to leave."

A tiny leg hooks around his, toes dragging slow along his skin. "Mmm. Not yet."

He wasn't expecting this. Her—having any desire to be close to him once her goal was achieved. But then, he'd never really experienced anyone wanting to be close to him. Especially lately. Castiel gives a noncommittal grunt, shifting uncomfortably. No one should want him. He's tainted. So is she, of course, but at least the demon can't help what she is. He can claim no such excuse.

Her laughter spills over him like something dark, almost beautiful. "Stick around, cloudhopper. No need to fly off so soon. I'm not done with you yet."

"I have nowhere else to go," he acknowledges.

Meg sighs. "You're a damn tragedy, Castiel."

The angel considers this, weary with his own thoughts, and withholds a sigh of his own. "I'd rather be forgettable."

"Clarence... you're a lot of things. But forgettable will never be one of them."

His brow quirks, blue eyes scanning the ceiling once more for assistance. "I can't decide if that's a compliment or a complaint."

"Neither can I," Meg mutters to herself, though the angel of course hears. He always hears.

This is the second week they've been doing this. Whatever _this_ could be called. It's a strange comfort, something he finds solace in and generally feels shame for. The shame never lasts long, though. Compared to his other grievances, he supposes the positive far outweighs the negative. And there is his selfishness shining through again.

"Do you think I use you?" he asks, on the verge of contrition. Mostly he's confused, but the guilt is never far off.

The demon snorts. "Baby, you can use me however you want. Don't get all broody on me now—our little arrangement was just starting to get good."

"I can see through you, you know."

She needs this as much as he needs it.

He feels Meg bristle, going tense in his arms for a spell before she finally settles back down. "Nobody likes a know-it-all. You'd better start doing things to me again, before I lose interest and vamoose."

"Violence begets more violence."

"What?"

Castiel frowns, dismayed eyes flicking over hers. "I should have known that. By now, I should have known that."

Meg looks at him, really looks at him. She notices the frown lines on his face, the sadness in his eyes, and thinks he looks tired. More than that, he looks so, so sorry. They hold gazes for a moment before she's rising up over him, palm lingering on his chest. "For one second, look who you're talking to, angel." Despite the edge to the words, her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "How many times do you think I've painted the town red before I moved on to a new city to start all over again? There are other bastards in the world, Castiel. What makes you think you're so special? So you fucked up, get in line. This place is full of monsters, no matter where you look. Sometimes they're the thing you're fighting, sometimes it's the thing you see in the mirror. You're not alone, no matter what you think. Buck up, and accept it. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can put this all behind you, and I won't have to listen to you whine anymore."

In the prolonged silence that follows, her words are left sounding unnaturally loud.

Surprising even himself, Castiel feels the corners of his mouth edge apart in what could almost be a smile.

Meg stares back evenly at him, arching a dark eyebrow at his continued silence and bordering-on dopey expression. "What?"

"You know, I never noticed before... all that thorny pain inside of you... it's sort of beautiful."

She shoves at him, scoffing. But when she tries to climb off of him and retreat, he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her back into him. Their lips meet in a sparky mess, her fingers forgetting the sheet and cresting over his shoulders hungrily. He tangles a hand in her hair, memories vanishing one by one in a haze as they kiss, like clockwork. He loses himself in her until he can feel nothing else. It's a mistake and it's wrong and it's such a _relief_ that, for just a moment, he willfully forgets every grievous misdeed he's ever committed.

Her legs lock around his hips, nails digging into his back. Castiel isn't the only one who needs to forget.

She remembers pain. She remembers the pain ending.

Meg feels clean.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Review please. :)

*is needy*


	18. Imprint

**Author's Note:** Hello, all. :)

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><p><strong>IMPRINT<strong>

_hospital prompt_

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><p>Why the hell an angel of the freaking Lord had to end up imprinting on her like a baby duck, Meg would never know. Whatever the reason, she had shit to get done, and having a perpetual shadow was not helping matters. Frankly, it wasn't helping her sanity, either. Meg hazarded that, if he kept this up, she'd be as bonkers as him by the end of the day.<p>

"What do you want?" she spat, more annoyed with the fact of her goals getting interrupted than being angry with the angel. He cowered away, and she took a deep breath. _Patience_, Meg told herself, gritting her teeth. Castiel looked at her like she was going to bite him, or worse. He hovered uncertainly, waiting for her to do something. He'd followed her the whole distance off the grounds and she didn't know what to think about that. He was too eager to please and it was giving her an eye twitch. Was his wiring screwy? Did he forget they hated each other? Sure, they'd had some damn fine chemistry and therefore phenomenal sexual tension in the past, but they still couldn't stand one another. "Don't you remember? What's wrong with you?" Was his amnesia acting up again?

Castiel just stared, not understanding.

"You could kill me with a touch. Absolutely obliterate me with a narrowing of those big dewy eyes. Why the hell are you afraid of me?"

Surprising her, he touched her elbow with the tips of his fingers. "I don't want to kill you," Castiel told her tentatively, a puzzled expression on his face. "Please, don't be angry. Whatever I've done wrong, I'll stop. Please. Just... tell me what I've done. Whatever it is, I won't do it again."

Meg, upon realizing the cause of his quiet panic, felt her icy demeanor thaw against her will. "Oh."

The angel waited, whether for punishment or further explanation, she wasn't sure. This was so not her pay grade.

Sighing, she told him, "I'm not the Winchesters, Cas." Seeing the look on his face, the flash of pain, she did something on a whim, something dangerous. She took his hand in hers. "You don't have to be scared of me. And I won't leave you."

His blue stare nearly liquefied before her eyes, rooting her to the spot in a hypnotic, empathizing way. Then, in the next instant, he was smiling brightly at her, fingers tugging at hers. "Come to the garden with me. I'd like to show you something."

Meg bit her lip, averting her eyes and allowing herself to be towed after him. "Fine. But if I get stung by one of your bees again, Clarence, your sorry ass is gonna heal me."

"I think it's safe to say you're deadly in your own way," Castiel assured her, like he knew what she was thinking. That she loathed and dreaded the softening of her jagged exterior and deliberately raised her hackles in defense against his coaxing. His tone resembled that of someone admiring a kitten trying to be threatening.

Meg considered clawing at him just to show him up for the unwitting slight. "Don't get cute."

Then again, with the way he was bounding ahead, still so eager to please, like some perverse version of a golden retriever, Meg wondered what would happen if she scratched him behind the ears instead.

"I would like that," remarked the angel, rooting through her thoughts without effort and, as usual, without permission. Petulantly, the demon huffed. "But after the bees."

"Whatever."

Unbidden then, a thought came to her as he ushered her about the garden, ambling through flowerbeds and admiring the insect life. Meg smirked to herself, another thin layer of ice melting away.

What was that golden retriever's name, from _Homeward Bound_?

Shadow.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Reviews make me happy. :)


	19. Lost

**Author's Note:** Guess who's back... back again... guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back...

(tell a friend)

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><p><strong>LOST<strong>

_7x23 - Survival of the Fittest_

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><p>The angel blinked owlishly when the demon stood on her toes to kiss him. "What was that for?"<p>

Her lips tipped in a smile. "We're probably gonna die tomorrow, so… nice knowing you, Clarence."

Tomorrow, they would kill Dick Roman. That was, at least, _the plan_. But when had things ever gone according to plan in their lives? Castiel took a moment, feeling the warmth of the setting sun at their backs, the clear pine smell of the forest around them, the beckoning shelter of the cabin they stood next to. He looked down at the creature beside him, eyes combing over her fondly. Filled with the sudden urge to touch her, he reached out, fingers brushing over hers. "If you're lost, I'll find you."

This meant: _I won't let anything hurt you if I can help it._

Meg arched an eyebrow at him, mouth twitching at the chivalrous promise. "What if _you_ get lost? Not always the girl who needs protecting."

Castiel smiled. "Then find me."

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><p>When angel and demon find themselves in harrow Hell and a realm of age-old monsters, so removed from each other, so desperately lost, they each send out silent prayers, asking after the other, offering comfort. Both vowing the same thing:<p>

_I will find you again._

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> *insert witty comment about begging for reviews*


	20. Flush

**Author's Note: **Since I was in a rut, writing little else but gutwrenching angst... here! Have some funnies!

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><p><strong>FLUSH<strong>

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><p>"What the hell?"<p>

Both Winchester brothers stared in muted horror at the unholy sight in front of them when they arrived back at their motel room.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, and Meg, demon spawn, were sitting at the rickety old table in the corner. Meg was fully clothed—which wasn't all that remarkable, really. The usual denim and leather combo, tight curls flung haphazardly over one shoulder. Castiel, however, was sitting on the opposite side of the dirty laminate, in only a pair of black boxer shorts and his blue necktie, looking bewildered and extremely frustrated. Meg was grinning wide and shamelessly, teeth forming a sharp crescent of white.

"Howdy boys," she drawled. She waved the playing cards she held in one hand at them.

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Dean dropped his duffel on the floor with a heavy thud, breaking the silent and humiliating tension that came with walking in on such a scene. "Strip poker with an angel, Meg? Are you serious?" At least he _hoped_ that's all it was. His friend was, after all, two losses away from one hell of a pay-up fee.

Sam coughed, averting his eyes. "Wow."

"Little Clarence is _far_ from innocent, Deano. This is probably the least scandalous thing I've done with him all week. Although, he does lose a lot at cards. It's so sad."

"I don't like this game," said the angel grumpily.

He stared forlornly at the cards in his hands, looking ten shades of insulted. As if they'd personally slighted him. "That's too bad," Meg muttered cheekily to herself, wiggling her booted foot, which rested on Castiel's knee under the table. She was clearly enjoying the picture before her as much as the fact that she was winning.

Cas slid his eyes back to the still-gaping boys near the door, offering a sullen glare. "I think the demon cheats."

Dean snorted, finally trudging in. Though, by the wary hesitation in his steps, the carpet may as well have been lava. "Fair assumption."

Meg smirked; though, by her smile, there was no visible remorse to be found. "Rude."

"The tie, though?" ventured Sam, expression screwed up into something ranging between intrigue and disgust. He looked conflicted, as though he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to know or not.

"Meg said the tie was to be last," supplied the angel.

Dean approached the table carefully, as one did a surly bear. "What cards do you have?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed studiously at the slips of cardboard in front of him. "A two, an eight, a three, the letter A, and this man dressed as some kind of sovereign."

Dean saw the mix of black and red cards and their rank, stifling a facepalm. Sam winced.

Meg cackled loudly.

Cas sighed, obviously put out over another loss, but obedient to the rules of the game as the demon slapped down another royal flush. The angel got to his feet, reluctant resignation crossing his features.

"Ah…" Sam started, quickly adopting a panicked expression.

The larger hunter had nothing to fear, really, because Dean was already bellowing out a very passionate, "NO!" to the room.

He whirled on the angel.

"Cas, you take those drawers off, so help me God…" He turned to the demon next. "NO," he said again, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child. His finger rose to point at her accusingly, in punctuation of the forbiddance. Meg merely lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed and clearly not by any means intimidated.

Smug, too. She was _always_ smug.

_Impish bitch._ Dean narrowed his eyes. "Both of you, get out. This room needs a holy cleansing, pronto, and—_frankly_—my head may explode if the reality of this situation sinks in any further. Sam?" The floppy haired hunter looked a little green, but the corners of his mouth twitched with some unintended amusement. Dean slumped, throwing up his hands. "I don't even know, dude."

His brother was surely as scarred as he was, so there was no sense sending him out on a pie run. Driving so soon after a trauma was inadvisable, saviors of the world or not.

"_You_," he said, pointing again at Meg, "are the devil."

The demon snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. Not even remotely offended.

"But Dean, Meg is not actually—"

"Stow it, Cas. And put some clothes on, man!" whined the older Winchester loudly, at long last.

Castiel sighed, crossing the room to retrieve his discarded wardrobe.

"Hey," Meg protested, stopping him in his tracks. She rose to her feet from the chair, delivering the boys a challenging look before turning her eyes on the angel. "You owe me, hot wings. No reneging on the rules just because Rocky and Bullwinkle break up the party."

There was silence.

Meg lifted a challenging eyebrow, lips twisting in quiet triumph.

Castiel's shoulders slumped, but there was a smirk hiding somewhere beneath his stony stoicism—which only looked ridiculous, given his current attire. He turned to the boys, dutiful. "Dean. Sam."

With a brisk nod, followed subsequently by the telltale flutter of wings, both angel and demon were gone.

The silence now seemed unnaturally loud.

"You gotta be friggin' kidding me."

Sam wrinkled up his nose, offering nothing in reply.

"Are we the only ones here not getting laid?" Dean asked, to the room or to his brother, Sam couldn't be sure. He only knew that Dean was defaulting to the absurd to try and erase what he'd just seen.

Instead, the younger of the two pointed a wary finger at the pile of clothes that remained behind; particularly the tan trenchcoat draped inevitably over the top. "You realize he'll eventually be back for those."

Back—while still one layer away from stark freaking naked, and probably with a horny little demon on his tail yet again.

"Son of a bitch."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> You know what the say about reviews, don't you?

I'll leave it up to your imagination.

Also, I was gonna end it like this:

"At least we didn't walk in on them having sex."

"Sam—"

"Like last time."

*facepalm*

But it just didn't quite fit with the continuation and I liked it better with Dean's SOB line, so... there you go.


	21. Touchstone

**Author's Note:** I'm in denial. What are you talking about? 8x17 had a happy ending and they all went out for beers together after ganking Crowley's stupid face.

This was written before the episode aired, and is somewhat unbeta'd. Judge not. Also, look back over the other chapters of this little dickens for some freshly-edited easter eggs.

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><p><strong>TOUCHSTONE<strong>

_pre-8x17 AU_

* * *

><p>"He's off the rails."<p>

"He's gone full Manchurian Candidate."

She listens to their concerns in an offhanded sort of way, contrary in its silent diligence. The two hunters are as forthcoming emotionally as they usually are—firm walls of plaster and brick she can never begin to deconstruct. They wear their _serious business_ faces, all the while plain of the fact that their loathing of her presence has yet to change. She allows one corner of her mouth the permission to quirk.

"Well?"

A sculpted eyebrow lifts, weighing the information they've given her. The cogs of her brain work expertly behind eyes dark as pitch, eyes that spark with the same cunning disposition that's kept her alive for so long. Frankly, she enjoys being underestimated.

They want to know if she's in. Somehow, she finds the thought of that amusing.

Crowley's singular fault, the one loophole in his master plan, had rested on the assumption that the Winchesters would never think to summon her back.

_Tonight, the role of Obi-Wan Kenobi shall be played by the little hot piece of ass yours truly. _Han and Chewbacca could rest easy—she'd clean up their unholy mess.

* * *

><p>There are seven of them, and it's strange, poetic irony that yields the number.<p>

They've called their brother to them; angels, lending aid to a fallen sibling. Since the war, eternity has been rendered too short to remain as condemnatory as they'd been taught to be. They are here to protect him, to warn him. They'd been alongside Samandriel a time not so long ago, had heard his cry when he'd been taken. Heard it again when he'd been found—his call, his warning. They had all felt the moment his grace had given out.

"Castiel," says one, speaking for the group. "Please, come with us. There is a present danger that none of us are equipped to take on alone."

"Brother," says another. "Something has a hold on you."

"We can help."

"Let us help."

"We will protect you, as you've protected us."

And it isn't a trick, there is no guise of sanctuary, every word they speak is rooted in truth and empathy. There is hope in their eyes, tenuous but building. He had looked on them with such compassion—perhaps with some confusion, but a ready willingness to listen.

It's only moments, though, after they make their case, that his demeanor shifts completely. His eyes glaze over, unseeing at first as though he is continents away. All too quickly, like colors draining from a portrait, any trace of emotion deserts him until he is left utterly expressionless and without reason.

All hope plummets at their feet, leaving behind a pool of growing fear. Briefly, foolishly, they remember a time when they'd never had cause to fear Castiel. The little brother who found beauty in everything.

His features are carved now of stone, absent of any compassion. Blue eyes icing over, he tells them, "You have all been compromised, and must be destroyed in the service of Heaven." Two blades descend into his waiting hands, sprouting from beneath tan sleeves. "Condolences."

Their brother attacks, and they cannot run fast enough.

He tears into them mercilessly, with the same driven coldness he'd fought so hard and for so many years to abolish. The very thing he'd bled for, died for, to free them all from, now controls him. There is a terrible focus to his movements—the dying, panicked screams of his brethren filling the void in the center of his grace. The pleas fall on deaf ears.

Two of the younger angels are dead before they even register the danger. Some put up a futile fight, cut down just as quickly as the others who try to flee. They are all silenced by his blade. He has been made a tool of Judgment, darting amongst them as a ghost and as uncaring as a hurricane. One little sister sprints from the ambush, wings spreading out in a frantic rush to escape. She is easily intercepted, one blade sprouting through her back, driving her screaming to her knees, another flash of steel sweeping across her throat, spilling light onto the ground at their feet.

An older brother calls out, desperate for rescue. An angel blade knifes through the air across the distance, embedding in the center of his chest. Barakiel screams, arching, and the weapon is drawn from his chest to rip into another before he is even dead.

Angelic voices wail in echo across the Heavens, dying out in brutal knells.

There had been no chance, no hope of escape for any of them. Castiel has always been the fastest among the Host. He's killed them all, and there is the smell of scorched ozone and burnt feathers in the air, the imprints of wings branding the earth, smoke and blood on his blades and hands. He stands stoic at the center of it all, impervious to the heavy silence, unfeeling because his emotions have been stripped.

But then the wind changes, and even through the abyss his thoughts have become, Castiel feels the presence at his back. The breeze rustles through his hair and wings, bringing the new scent.

"What a fine mess you've made, lover."

There is a token of familiarity in the voice. It brushes over his skin like silk, like thorns. There is a fleeting thought that he might know those thorns, but it passes quickly. The words are crooned in a dulcet drawl that irrationally sets every nerve in his celestial body on fire.

Castiel's brow knits only slightly, and he turns on the tiny creature standing now before him.

"So, which Castiel are you? T-1000 model?"

His head tilts, sharp blue eyes unblinking. He stares at her for a long time, seeing neither threat nor ally. Indifference paints his face, though there is a note of questioning in his voice when he speaks. "Demon."

Meg smirks. "What—no reunion kiss? _So glad you're alive, Meg. Please forgive my utter jackassery for leaving you to rot in Crowley's hands all this time_. Clarence, I'm disappointed. Here I thought you might actually be pining after me. Instead, I crawl my way out of home sweet hellhole to see you snuffing out family members. Not that I'm not impressed," she quickly amends, gesturing to the display of bodies between them. She approaches him slowly, heels digging into the ground, smile digging into him. The patches of sunlight bursting through the clouds reflect on the emptiness of his utterly vacant stare. "Just strikes me a little odd. What, with your cyclopean guilt trip, last we spoke. Tire of the bees already, did we?" Meg's smile turns to pure suggestion, eyes drinking him in. "I always said those hands were meant for violent, nasty things. Glad you finally shed the flowers for the sword."

There is a flutter of wings, and suddenly he is directly in front of her. His looming form is a threat in itself. "I have no interest with you."

A dark eyebrow crooks at him defiantly. "Oh, is that so? All those wall-slamming make out sessions and cheap poetry lends me to think otherwise. Don't be a tease, precious. What's really going on with you, hmm? Your little pets are chasing their tails right now, worried at your little mood swings and the reemergence of douchebag angel factory settings. So, spill already. I haven't got all day." He's never looked at her like this. Even upon their first meeting, there had at least been curiosity. Smugness, even. Not this blank canvas of lurking menace.

Her words draw nothing out of him whatsoever. All she sees is the glacial stare and firmly set jaw. All those hard lines and the smell of death and burnt grace surrounding them. Like a sentinel without orders.

Something changes then, something in his eyes.

_Kill her_, he hears. _Burn out the demon_.

"You are required to die," says the angel.

Her eyes darken like coals. "You'd better watch your mouth."

"Do not resist."

He steps forward and she ducks his advancement, angry confusion springing up in her expression. "What the _hell_?"

Castiel makes to take another step, but his footing hitches. Something thaws in his gaze, some remnant of resistance cropping up that only confuses her more. "_Soh vak te_…"

Her voice is a sharp cut in his flesh. "_Cas_."

"I… must obey."

Meg's eyes narrow, and her hackles bristle at his bordering on lost tone, the vacancy in his eyes. "Who the hell is in your head right now?" She lets the suspicion in her voice fall over him, and she takes a step closer, erasing the distance between them. Heedless of whatever he'd been about to do to her. "Whatever's going on up there, fight it." She goes so far as to grip him tight by the shoulders, shaking him. "You hear me, you flying asshat? Something is _wrong_!"

_KILL HER!_

Even Meg hears it that time. And, before she can even wonder what the hell is going on, his palm is suddenly on her forehead, hot and blistering. Meg seizes up, feeling the power of his grace as it starts to burn her. She fights him, but his other arm snaps around her like a steel band, holding her in place. Meg growls out a curse between her gnashed teeth, seeing the war going on behind his eyes even if his outward demeanor is in full-on smite mode.

"I don't think so," Meg snarls. "When you kill me, it sure as hell isn't going to be someone else pulling your strings, Castiel." One hand shoves hard against his chest, the other reaching up to grab at his hair. Her smile is all at once full of honey and knives. "And I'll damn well be getting a proper goodbye kiss."

Even the automaton angel is startled when the demon crashes her lips onto his, and his vice hold falters. The intimate contact sends a spark of electricity through him, triggering something buried. He doesn't quite kiss her back, but neither is he as resistant as he should be.

Just as she once had, what seems like a lifetime ago now, Meg takes full advantage of the distraction, pilfering the familiar steel. With practiced skill, she drives his angel blade through the meat of his thigh. Light bursts from the wound, a loud rushing accompanying his shout of pain. The spell broken, Castiel staggers back, looking on her with wild eyes. He falters to one knee, clutching at his injured grace and the light spilling out in mass confusion as he gradually comes back to himself.

"No one gets to play with that pretty little head of yours but me, Castiel. Get me?" She stands as an avenging goddess, blade ready, lovely face contorted in ire. Every inch of her is ready to do damage, to make his puppeteer suffer. There is a wrath of her own that every angel should fear.

"Meg?"

"You back on planet Vulcan with the rest of us misfit toys?"

"You're… blond."

"Well, shucks. Didn't think you boys actually took notice of that sort of thing. I'm flattered."

Her sarcasm is unsurprisingly lost on him, but there are bigger problems than puzzling out the machinations of Meg's snarky retorts. Realization quickly sets in, and it isn't long before he's back on his feet and towering in front of her. Blue eyes dart the area, dual storms, and he doesn't ask her any questions. There's no time for that. No time to register the bodies of his kin lying dead at their feet. He knows this like the still burning itch in his fingers to burn her out of her husk. "It's not safe here."

Castiel grips her hand tightly in his, and suddenly there is a rough pulling on all her limbs as she is hurdled through space.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Reviews may just save Meg. That is, nothing happened to Meg at all. She's fine. Just fine.


	22. Strength

**Author's Note:** Still in denial. Meg is fine. She's fine. This is just a "what if" scenario, k? K.

Brief summary: Castiel on the run. He's been seeing her for weeks, unable to shake the dread that comes with every vision. Because he knows what happens when you see people who aren't really there.

* * *

><p><strong>STRENGTH<strong>

_post-8x17_

* * *

><p>He knows why he's been seeing her.<p>

Knows, and yet can't bear to say it out loud. It's three weeks in, on the run, seeing her image (ghost), that he finally breaks, veering into a territory that's dangerously close to desperate. A wave of emotion consumes him, and he turns on her. Angry, mourning what never became of them. For a frightening moment, he worries he can't keep himself in check, and the lights around them start to flicker, the walls shuddering sadly as the earth before a quake. She is the last ember of peace he had to hold to. He had already broken so many ties, so many friendships and loyalties, that the world around him heaved on its axis. She had remained, where everything else lay shattered as a mirror wearing his own reflection. A visage he can no longer look on without wanting to destroy it.

She died for him, says it was worth it, says so with a smile that's half pain and half love.

He has never been worthy of such loyalty. He wishes people would stop dying for him, but if he could choose one life to spare, it would be hers. God help him, the Devil damn him, he would choose her.

He sees her because he is haunted. It's her, he knows it's her, and yet it isn't.

_Meg_, his heart screams, or what would be his heart—the swirling nebulous of roaring grace just beneath Jimmy Novak's chest.

_Worth it_, she says again, and he sees that she believes it, with everything she's made of.

_Had to die some time_, her eyes tease; gently though, because she knows he's hurting.

There are tears in her eyes, which is startling. Castiel is only more startled to realize that the fog he's seeing her through is the result of his own outpouring grief.

Truthfully, he had believed himself beyond such human debility, thought no angel capable of the display. He is proven wrong in the worst way possible, because he refuses to believe she is gone.

He cannot be alone now; _please_, not now.

He's mired by the paradox of it. Seeing her as he is means she is gone from earth, dead and gone to wherever demons go—yet, were she not with him now, he doesn't know how he'd survive this. He has no idea his purpose, these inborn instincts telling him to follow this path. They are confusing and it's awful because he's always known the destination. Even when he'd rebelled, he knew the consequences and all possible outcomes it contained. It was only a matter of navigating the roads set out. Here, there is but one road and it drags on for miles, for eons, and there is no end in sight. He is a celestial being, an angel of the Lord; he sees beyond the limitations of man, a hairsbreadth below the reach of God, and yet there is nothing. There is _nothing._

Nothing open to him at all, just a blank canvas—a voice telling him to press on, while he is left without control. _Without his little shadow_, that small and deadly voice reminds him.

It is terrifying and he is supposed to fear nothing.

Swift as a star plummeting from the heavens, he hurdles straight over the line of desperation and right into the damaging waters of inconsolable heartache. Another thing he'd been so certain he was beyond the reach of.

_PLEASE, Meg_, screams the core of his grace. His hands find her body, pressing against her, and she shouldn't feel so real, so alive, because he knows she's not. _Father_, he knows she's not.

His voice cracks over the words, fracturing deep as his fortitude does. "Just tell me where you are. Tell me where you are, and I'll find you, Meg." He whispers, a plea against her temple, "I'll find you."

Meg feels the splash of tears against her skin, feels sooty lashes of seawater eyes wired shut and pressing in her hair.

She is holding him as he falls apart, the brush of hidden wings curling around them both. He's trying to hide from the outside force closing in on them—so long spent surreptitiously weaving amongst the secrets and now he wishes he could go back to being unseen.

He has seiged the fires of Hell too many times to count, has triumphed over the greatest, most indefensible evil, and yet he knows in this moment he can no longer be strong.

He is only one, after all. What victory could he ever hope to achieve, so alone as he is?

Meg's fingers, intangible as they should be, delve into his hair and brush over his back. They press soothing patterns into his flesh and thoughts, warm where the touch of her should be cold. His shoulders tremble around her and he doesn't want to be alone anymore. He so wishes for the time of the Apocalypse, just as she had confessed so candidly. At least then he had been a soldier amongst a garrison.

He knows he still has so much to atone for and yet his subconscious begs for connection until his own lips are repeating the plea into physical words against her.

"I'll find you," he chokes again.

And he will.

Be it his last, valiant act, he will traverse Heaven and Hell, earth and sea, to find her. He will raid every dominion in search of her he can find, whether it be on this planet or the next. This galaxy or the other. He will tear through the fabric of time and reality, swim through the portals of Purgatory. He will break every seal, raise every beast. He thinks he might even pry open the Cage and demand the help of two warring archangels.

He will hunt down Crowley and tear him limb from limb, only to piece him back together and demand to know how to revive her. There are beings he can summon, powers he can harness. Black magic, voodoo, crossroads, sirens, djinns, witches, all play through his mind. Forgetting the tablet and searching instead for that unassuming amulet that can tell him where his Father is. Castiel will find Him and make Him bring her back.

How many times had his Father resurrected him?

He never knew her for as long as he'd hoped, but when she had been there, Meg was with him completely. There was no inbetween—all or nothing, was his thorny queen. His caretaker. His touchstone.

The one who stayed.

Even when his Father left, the angels left, Dean and Sam left—she had stayed. Even in death, she refused to leave his side.

_Soon_, whispers Meg in his ear. It's a smoky balm, soothing every nerve, every weakening resolve. It breathes new life into him, because it's an unspoken promise. He understands what it means, clueless as he so often is. "Buck up, hotwings. You take care of this tablet."

"Meg…"

"Stand up straight. Square those shoulders. Get done what needs to get done. You show those bastards what you're made of, Cas. Then… you'll know exactly where to find me."

_And I'll be here until you do…_ that low voice vows reverently in his thoughts, a promise all its own.

She isn't going to leave him. Not now, not ever.

He's her unicorn, after all. Not even she's fool or misshapen enough to ignore something like that. Because when you find a cause, you damn well serve it to its end. Sure, the Angel of Thursday may be a lost cause, but he's _her_ lost cause.

_Take a breath. Get going._

Castiel takes a breath. He stands up straight, squares his shoulders. He allows his head to clear, his eyes to dry, his hands to steady. The fog breaks.

"I won't let you down, Meg."

And he won't.

_That's my boy_, is the disembodied echo. _Kick it in the ass_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> She's fine, damn it. Please review.


	23. Names

Like Meg, Castiel is now drifting. He goes from town to town, virtually without a cause until he'll eventually find one to serve.

Meg spent her years on earth borrowing name after name, using them and shedding them as easily as one changed their clothes. She became that person, wholly, until it was time to move on. Time to say goodbye to that life and that name.

So, with nowhere to go, no cause to serve, Castiel shows what he has learned from her and becomes Clarence. He lives and breathes as this new person, this name she has given him. Coined after an angel trying desperately to gain his wings.

But that way lies danger and more heartbreak, turn after turn. Perhaps finding his wings again was a terrible purpose. Just as Lucifer was hers. He'll need another.

So he becomes Steve.

Once, he was an angel of the Lord.

"And now I'm a sales associate."

Is it ideal? Certainly not. It's humiliating - just as being a fugitive from Hell was for her - but at the same time, perhaps it's the start of something. Something bigger than both of them.

Something once as unfathomable as a demon laying down her life for an angel.

And maybe she'll be back, with a new name.

Meg may be gone, but only the chapter is over. Her story is just beginning.

And so is his.

They'll meet again. Maybe another ring of fire, maybe another abandoned factory, hospital room, or threadbare couch.

Maybe next time he'll be the demon and she the angel.

Fate saw what they made of each other, how loyalties shattered when they shared a room, shared a kiss.

Just as the planets in orbit, it may take years, it may take lifetimes, but their paths will cross again. Maybe there'll be another apocalypse, maybe they'll be running from the same thing. Or maybe he'll simply see her one day across the aisle, buying groceries. She'll have a new meatsuit, a new name - maybe he will too - but he'll know it's her and she'll know it's him.

Those with no name of their own have a habit of finding each other, regardless of time or reason.


End file.
